Dawn Patrol
by TLH
Summary: Tristan had never bothered to take notice of Aithne, simply because he chose not to.Aithne had been hiding from Tristan since the first day she saw him, simply because she was terrified of the way her heart pounded so painfully whenever she was near the him. When he finally looks up, he finds love for the first time.But he isn't the only one with an eye for the shy baker's daughter
1. Chapter 1 Dawn

**Well, I never thought I'd be writing another Tristan fic...but here I am!**

**Firstly a huge, heartfelt 'Thank you' to my dear friend and BETA 'Incognito'**

**Synopsis: The story of Tristan and Aithne - I'm not really sure how to explain this story…er…. two men, one woman….we shall see...!**

**Reviews: most welcome :) **

**Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to the characters from the 2004 'King Arthur' Film. I'm only responsible for what they get up to here. No copyright infringement intended and no monies being made from this tale. **

**Authors Notes:** **Aithne - **pronuonced** 'Eff-Na' -** very old Celtic name meaning** 'fire'** which suits her perfectly.

**Dawn Patrol**

**Chapter One – Dawn**

Tristan didn't notice the small, inconspicuous figure that stood across the tavern bar talking to Vanora, as he sat alone in his usual quiet corner breaking his fast that early dawn. Or rather, the figure _listening_ to Vanora - as it were few that were strong enough of character to be able to get in a word or be heard above her enthusiastic tittle-tattle when she was in full swing, as she was this morning. Perhaps it would also be more precise to say that he simply _paid no heed _rather than _didn't notice _her, because quite frankly, Tristan didn't give a 'donkey's backside' whose ears Vanora chose to assault with her caterwauling and inane gossip, so long as it wasn't his.

However, if had he ever been inclined to look up and take note of the girl that wafted in every morning with the delicious tang of fresh baked bread, his extraordinarily sharp instincts would have easily picked up the subtle scent of reluctance in her soft steps and unease in her quiet voice. But until this particular morning, she had been of no importance to the knight and thus her presence not worthy of any such interest.

The tavern was empty but for Tristan, Vanora and the insignificant baker's girl. The songbirds had not yet begun their morning chorus, but Badon Fort was slowly coming to life as the dawn sun peeped out over the peaks of the far Eastern hills.

Night patrols, their shifts almost over, yawned and rubbed their cold hands together with eager thoughts of their warm beds. Smithies rubbed the sleep from their eyes as they fired up their furnaces and baker's hastily prepared to feed a hungry fortress ready to rise.

Spring was approaching fast this year and already Tristan knew that today the dawn would bring with her a glorious show. He could smell the promise of sunshine upon the air and this suited him just fine, for it had rained solid for last two days.

Swallowing another mouthful of cheese, he quenched his dry throat with the watered wine in his mug. Draining the vessel, he then waved it above his head at Vanora in a demanding gesture which he knew full well would annoy her. Vanora suddenly stopped her chatter and glared across at him.

"Hold yer horses...can't ya see I'm busy 'ere?" She grumbled, her fiery red brows lacing together in vexation. "Lazy, good for nothin'…thinks I'm 'ere just to wait on 'im…" she muttered under her breath to no one in particular, as she turned her attention back to the girl who stood across the high wooden tavern bar.

"Right love, wot do we 'ave here... two dozen as usual…?"

The girl nodded once and handed over a tray of freshly baked cinnamon loaves. Still warm from the stone oven, their delicious aroma gently rose through the linen cloth that covered them, enticing Vanora's taste buds and making them tingle. The red-haired woman grinned as she took the proffered tray, bending over to inhale hungrily.

"_Mmmm_…yer Da makes the finest bread in the land Aithne, I swear." The girl named Aithne, said nothing, giving only a shy smile in reply.

"Aye…this'll keep the gripes from their bellies"

A loud thump from the table across the way wiped the smile from Vanora's lips once more.

"Alright, alright!" She snapped loudly over the girl's head "Damn, bloody impatient…."

"'Nora… I haven't all day." a low voice growled back.

Vanora huffed angrily, pursing her lips and muttering curses through her clenched teeth.

"Ere love, just take that pitcher to 'is _majesty _over there, will ya…while I put these in the back."

Vanora stared a moment, amused as Aithne's face grew suddenly bright pink, then drain of all colour all in an instant.

"Don't look so afrit, lass…! He won't bite ya…" She chuckled as she turned and walked away. "Not while I'm 'ere anyways..!" she added, with a mischievous glint.

Aithne cringed as the sound of Vanora's laugh followed her out and her nervous eyes fell on the wine pitcher before her. How many early dawns had she been here, delivering the bread from her fathers bakery for Vanora to feed her hungry soldiers and knights? How many times had she prayed that she would find Vanora alone and that _he_ had not yet risen from his bed? How many times had she felt her heart pound in her chest at the sight of his intimidating figure sat slouched over his morning meal as he prepared himself for his usual dawn patrol? Countless, that's how many.

She knew the shift pattern by heart. It was always Dagonet for five mornings, followed by Gawain and then _him_. It had been this way for months and seemed set to continue as she'd heard no hint to persuade her otherwise.

Being always careful to keep her back to him, never daring to glance in his direction had, up until now, proved successful in ensuring that never a word or a look had yet passed between them. Over time, she had managed to shield herself and blot out the stifling effect of his presence and her morning ritual had become easier to endure. But depite this, she still found herself thirsty for breath as she left, as if indeed she had been holding the air in her lungs the whole time she stood within his powerful aura.

She could never admit why this particular knight terrified her so, but from the first moment she ever laid eyes on him, she had been struck by a powerful furore, suffocation almost, which never failed to leave a tremble in her body and a pound in her breast whenever he was near her. It seemed so long ago now and a mere fleeting moment in time, but that first sight of him riding through the fortress gates aback that gruesome grey stallion of his - both man and horse swathed from head to hoof in the dark tarnish of a battle hard fought - would be forever scorched upon her memory.

Despite obvious exhaustion, he had stepped down from the saddle with effortless grace right where she had stood and for one brief instant his rich, impenetrable ochre stare caught her own wide and mesmerized eyes. What he saw there, she'd not a clue but he had hesitated a moment, his dark eyes fixed firmly on hers as he slowly lifted a blood-soaked knuckle to his mouth, tasting his victory.

Captivated, Aithne could do nothing but stare back; the smell of man and blood beguiling her feminine senses until she could bear it no longer. Her face had slowly shadowed with disgust and she had turned and fled from the wolf-like curl of amusement which ghosted the corner of his blood tainted lips.

But had it truly been the display of the animal's taste for blood that had appalled her so… or was it the shameful heat she had felt tingle and throb between her thighs as he held her under the spell of his bloodied, predacious smile?

Be it fear of him or shame of herself that made her run, Aithne would never dare ask herself. She acknowledged only that she loathed being anywhere within the barbarian's presence.

She loathed how he unnerved her every fibre without his even being aware of her and she loathed how his iniquitous ghost always remained to haunt her, long after he was gone.

She loathed him, because he unbalanced her simple world and yet she knew, she did not even exist in his, for that day had been the first and only time he had ever looked into her eyes…until now.

"You there! Will you fetch me that wine or not?"

The irritated growl sent a tremble through her small frame and threatened Aithne with a strong desire to flee, but after a moment's hesitation, she took an instinctively deep breath, picked up the pitcher and braved the few nervous steps which brought her to his table.

The pitcher was far weightier than she had thought it would be and by the time she had reached the table, the strength in her slender wrist was threatening to give way, causing her to drop the jug down in front of the knight with a trembling panic.

Wine splashed over the pitcher's rim with an indignant 'splosh' – spattering over the table and soaking what was left of the cheese upon the knight's platter.

She sensed his frown rather than saw it, for she was far too afraid to look up at him. Her mouth went dry and her soft, white neck flushed crimson with embarrassment.

"I beg yer pardon, sir…I'm…sorry…" she stuttered, mortified at the sound of her own voice which was more a strangled squeak than a voice at all.

Unable to just walk away but desperate for something to release her from the scrutiny of his dark scowl, she began to mop up the spill with the folds of her skirt, rocking the unsteady wooden table and upsetting the wine some more in her clumsy haste.

"Leave it" he commanded, his voice low with just a slight whisper of impatience. He stood up, poured himself another wine and drained the mug in just a few long gulps.

Aithne withered painfully under his towering shadow but she fought hard to keep some semblance of composure. Daring to glance up once, she saw him staring down at her over his mug rim with his stern dark brows clearly knitted together beneath a long, dishevelled curtain of shaggy brown hair and matted braids which rested upon his finely carved features.

Mumbling another, almost inaudible apology, Aithne at last found the strength to move and hurried away, not stopping to wish 'farewell' to the returning Vanora, only desperate to be anywhere other than near him. Vanora stopped and stared, confused at the determined and silent haste with which the girl fled.

"What did you say to 'er, y'daft clot?" Vanora accused across the room. Tristan dropped his empty mug on the table and scowled at Vanora.

"Nowt." He grumbled, vexed that Vanora should immediately jump to the conclusion that it _had_ to be him that had upset _her_. She was the ninny that had spoiled his breakfast for the love of the Gods, and he had been enjoying that cheese.

Slowly, Vanora's glare relaxed and she began to grin knowingly.

"Y' know you terrify her, don't ya?" she chuckled, as she sauntered over to his table and began to clear away the remnants of his spoilt meal.

"Who?" Tristan asked as he scratched at his greying whiskers, looking a tad baffled and thinking, '_That clumsy mouse that had just scuttled off?' _What had he ever done to her?

"Aithne…!" Vanora replied, as if he should know exactly who she was referring to. "Have y'never seen the blush on 'er cheeks and those frightened doe-eyes whenever you're 'ere of a morn?"

Vanora laughed again at Tristan's bewildered expression. In truth he'd never noticed anything about the girl except the mouth-watering smell of cinnamon that drifted in with the swoosh of her long skirts every morning.

"Aye, she's either scared stupid, or she fancies the breeches off ya. It's one or t'other, for thems the only things I know of that strike a woman dumb when they're around a man….and believe you me, she aint touched like that when _you're_ not 'ere! Did y'know that?" Vanora chuckled again as she walked away with the dishes. Tristan just gave a nonchalant grunt and began to gather his kit from under the table.

"You shoulda seen her face when I told her to take you the wine…poor little bugger...You'd a thought I were sendin' her to the gallows…mind you, I think I'd prefer the noose to you…"

"Yeah, yeah…." Tristan grumbled as he threw his sword across his back and prepared to leave on his dawn patrol "You're just pissed cos you've never had a real man like me, 'Nora…"

"_Oh really_!" Vanora's narrowed eyes flashed with mock threat as she thrust an indignant hand on her hip "I think my Bors would 'ave somethin' to say to you 'bout that!"

"Like I said..." He grinned "you've never had a _real_ man!"

Tristan ducked just in time to avoid the flying wine mug that came his way, his step never faltering as he strolled out towards the stable - his deep, smoky chuckle echoing behind him.

"Away with ya…Parasite!" Vanora hollered after him, but she was laughing as she turned back toward the tavern kitchen.

**...**

Outside, the sun was now lifting away the night shadows and Tristan stopped, taking time to glance over at the girl he now knew as Aithne. He had thought she would have been well out of sight by now, but instead she stood in conversation with the blacksmith's lackey, just outside the forge which stood across the from the armoury stables Tristan was heading to. It was then he realised his mistake.

Her being small of stature and so fearful to meet his eye had given him the impression she was but a young girl, but from here he could see now she had surprisingly strong features and a comely, mature curve to her figure. She must be more than a score and three, four maybe, Tristan couldn't be sure but she was certainly no _girl, _not with those curves that was to be sure.

The large, brawny young man stood before her; a broad white grin shining out from his soot-blackened face as he loomed over, whilst she stood straight-backed, head turned up, with eyes fixed upon his - so unlike the timid little chit who had spilled his wine and ruined his meal just a few moments ago. He could see she was smiling, but not convincingly, at least it seemed not to Tristan.

At first, the scene reminded him of something like that of a large bear about to gobble up a trusting and unsuspecting lamb. But as he watched more closely, he could see the woman was not as gullible as it first appeared. However, the young man didn't seem to recognize the subtle body language that was under his very nose - the faint way she edged her rod-like body backwards as he leaned ever nearer and the uneasy brush of her finger tips as they played unseen, with the folds of her skirt.

It was all so obvious to Tristan, the observer – Ironic really, as just a few minutes ago he'd so little interest in the woman that he hadn't even noticed that he had been scaring her witless most every morning for the Gods knew how long, at least that's what Vanora had just told him.

Maybe this Aithne was just afraid of everything and everyone for no sensible reason at all. For he honestly couldn't recall any deliberate offence he was guilty of toward her. He ate his meal, he drank his wine, and he left for patrol – nothing more.

Ah well, women were a strange breed, if he lived to be eight score and ten, Tristan would still never understand their irritating ways and baffling rationale and besides, some people were just born lily-livered were they not?

But then, what was that other thing Vanora said?

'…_or_ _fancies the breeches off ya…?'_

Tristan gave a dismissive grunt, and then turned his attention toward the stables, swiftly brushing aside all thoughts of silly women, split wine and breeches as he set off in anticipation of a long and peaceful morning on dawn patrol.


	2. Chapter 2 The Blacksmith's Apprentice

**I know it's been a **_**long**_** time, so firstly I must apologise. Following a long illness of almost two months (which began on New Years Day – oh joy!), bereavement and other nonsense that hits us in every day life – I confess I lost my muse for sometime. But everything seems rosy again and my enjoyment in writing has returned to me. Thank you to everyone that read the first chapter of this story and thanks especially to all those that left reviews. If you've come back to read more, I'm amazed after all this time and I thank you once again! I'll do my best not to let you down.**

**This chapter continues where the first ended and as it's been such along time since I wrote it, it might be an idea to scan your eyes over the first one again in case this second chapter seems a little confusing! Lol! **

**Guyon –** The Blacksmith's Apprentice** – he's inspired by another of my loves. If anyone watches the BBC's 'Robin Hood' you'll know who it is! No apologises for the blatantly obvious name, I couldn't resist! LOL!**

**Chapter 2 ~ The Blacksmith's Apprentice**

"Is something wrong, Aithne?" Guyon, the apprentice blacksmith asked, a slight frown darkening the sparkle of his steel-blue eyes. It vexed him to know he did not have her undivided attention, but he disguised his irritation well, giving away nothing but the appearance of concern.

Aithne hesitated a moment, as if the unexpected inquisition had not quite registered. Guyon's frown deepened in response to her faltering smile and the preoccupied eyes which stared up at him and he quickly glanced around as if in hope to find the answer to whatever it was that vied for her attention. But all he could see was the quiet courtyard, still empty but for a single Sarmatian knight leading a large grey stallion from the stables as he left on patrol.

"You'd tell me if something were troubling you?" The blacksmith insisted again in a lazy voice that was typically unhurried and deep and matched perfectly his towering stature. His sharp blue eyes flashed beneath his handsome, soot-blackened face with inquisitive guile, searching for whatever it was Aithne seemed intent to keep hidden.

Aithne shook her head, laughing lightly despite the pound of her heart that simply refused to be still, as she endeavoured to satisfy his unwanted scrutiny.

"Guyon, there's nothing troubling me, I'm just tired is all... Now I must hurry, I've still bread to take to the keep and me Da will like-as-not give me a cuffin' if I tarry much longer." With that, Aithne turned on her heels to go but was stopped by Guyon's calloused hand, oddly slender for a man of his trade, which reached out swiftly and held her by the wrist.

"Aithne…why are your skirts wet?" Sounding more accusation than question, a slow smile curled at the corner of his thin lips as he spoke, but his attractively carved face with its long, slim, hawk-like nose and piercing blue eyes remained stoic and spoke a different tale.

The look did not trouble Aithne, for it was the memory of Tristan glaring down at her over his wine mug which was causing her insides coil and not the reproachful glint of suspicion which Guyon flashed her way.

"I upset a pitcher in the tavern, is all…" Aithne replied, feeling somewhat piqued that he felt she should even explain herself to him, it was no business of his after all "…please let go Guyon, I must get on."

Aithne pulled away from him but he did not let go, holding her fast in his manacle grip. Instead he cocked his head to one side and stared down at her from beneath the waves of his long, tussled black hair, the air of cynicism obvious. A moments silence and then he leaned down towards her, so close she could feel his breath on her cheek.

"I'm only concerned for you, Aithne…" His voice as always was deep and slow, as if he were analysing every word before they left his lips. "…you know that don't you?"

Aithne stared back in annoyance, then cast a disgruntled glare at the fingers that still gripped her wrist with a possessive strength she was all-too aware of.

"Guyon" she said with calm insistence "_I must go_"

Guyon quickly dropped her wrist, as if he realised his thoughts had been unwontedly exposed.

"Of course," he replied quickly, taking a step back from her. He had overstepped the mark; he knew that and was quick and eager to make amends, for he had much to lose. "Forgive me, I should keep you no longer; we both have much work to do"

Aithne's mood immediately eased in response to the swift change in Guyon's disposition. He was smiling at her now, a devastatingly, attractive smile. A smile Guyon knew few, including Aithne, found difficult to resist. And there it was, the gentle flush of her cheeks which he knew signalled his small victory over her.

Despite her blush - that try as she might she just never had power over when Guyon looked at her that way - Aithne was no fool. This fine-looking man could have the pick of the village if he so wanted and probably did too most nights, Aithne suspected.

He stood over six feet tall, broad of shoulder with the dark, brooding countenance which made him easily mistaken for a knight-at-arms than for the unwilling smithy's apprentice he begrudgingly was. That together with his long ebony-black hair which hung to his shoulders, strong, attractive features and deep, husky voice he was indeed a hard man for any woman to ignore. But Aithne had long supposed his singular attention towards her had much less to do with what she considered her own, unremarkable physical attributes and more to do instead, with the material bounty that came with her, should she ever chose to marry again.

At first she had been confused and a little shocked by the initial attention shown by the man who had - up until she found herself a widow - never before shown the slightest interest in her. Not even an admiring glance as she passed by the Smithy's workshop of a morning. But when Guyon did he make his approach, as subtle as it was, it was perhaps with slightly inapproapriate haste. Aithne had been widowed but a few short weeks, her loss was still raw and her affection for her young, dead husband still heavy upon her heart. There could have been no room for consideration of another at such a time and so his attempt at courtship ineviatably proved unsuccessful - and to his ever growing frustration, continued to be so. Which was just as well for Aithne, for had she not been numb with grief, Guyon's honey-sweet words would no doubt have woven their spell, leading eventually to his great advanatge and most likely Aithne's grievous regret. As it happened, her initial grief had eased with time and left in it's wake a mildly bitter cynicism that loss often does to those that have loved. It didnt take long for her to realise Guyon's early attention for what it was.

Heith had always been a fragile boy. Fair-haired and slight of limb, he had been the image of his gentle mother who herself had been cruelly snatched away following her horrendous struggle giving him life. Guilt ridden and distraught from the loss of his beloved wife, Heith's father could find no solace in the infant boy, finding it easier to blame the innocent for the death of his wife and drown his sorrows in the bottom of an ale mug instead. It had caused Aithne's mother no misgiving to persuade her husband to take in their rapidly failing neighbour's child as their own and so it had been. Heith's father had offered no objection, just simply continued to drink himself in to a grave that took only eight short months for him to reach.

Growing up together as they did, it had never occurred to Aithne or Heith that they would be anything less than husband and wife one day. Their affection for one another had always been consistent and strong and so it seemed only natural that they should be hand-fasted. It was also, hardly surprising that no great passion ever burned between them; they had been together since the cradle after all and knew each other most completely. Both knew such all-consuming infatuations grew from the thrill of the new and the unknown. But what they did have together was a gentle love, deep respect and true friendship and so both could be nothing other than content.

The only darkness in their short union was Heith's delicate health. It was no wonder Aithne failed to beget a child in her three years as a wife. Often were his maladies, with the slightest of colds frequently turning into raging fevers and deliriums, and so then few were their couplings. The lack of a child was not only painful for Aithne and Heith, but every bit as painful to her father also, who himself had only Aithne to call his own. The Gods had seen fit to take all his children but her, before they were even grown in the womb. Surely they would be merciful in at least granting her father the joy of grandsons to carry on the family legacy? But it seemed the Gods weren't not of a mind to be merciful and instead they took not only his wife that year, but Heith as well.

The relentless cough began one summer following what had seemed a much lesser fever than most Heith had suffered. By mid-autumn the cough was racked with blood, by winter he was dead.

With her father now a widower and his only daughter herself, a childless widow with the tempting prospect of a modestly lucrative little bakery as a future dowry, it didn't take long for the likes of a discontented smithy's apprentice to spot the advantage of playing court to Aithne. After all, he had no future at the Blacksmiths.

The smithy had three sons of his own which left Guyon no hope of ever owning the business himself. He was nothing more than a lackey there anyhow and always would be; besides he detested the work. The heat, the grime, the eternal din – no, why should he have to toil like this when he could simply find a wife to do it for him, allowing him to sit back and enjoy the easy life it would mean for him? And Aithne was perfect! No brats, no siblings, just a tidy little bakery, which would eventually pass to her and of course, as her husband that would mean it would belong to him! She would bake her bread and he would live in effortless comfort. No more burning furnaces, no more ear-splitting thrash of molten steel. Ah yes, Aithne was perfect indeed. The only thing Guyon hadn't gambled on was how difficult persuading the baker's daughter to accept him would actually prove to be.

In the beginning, he never really considered that there was much to admire about her really, she seemed rather plain to the Guyon who had always been used to the company of the more pleasing looking women. But she was by no means an offence to the senses and he knew it wouldn't prove too much of a chore taking her to his bed. Of course, with the arrogant confidence he held in his own good looks, it never once entered his thoughts that his notice of her would be accepted with anything other than grateful delight. What he got however, was a baffling determination to keep him at arms length.

Her polite, but obvious rejection would normally have been more than enough to quash any further interest from him. But Guyon was a man little used to rejection from the feminine sex and it puzzled as much as annoyed him. Over time, her persistent evasion of his courtship began to stir more than just a desire for what material gain she would bring to the match. For the first time he actually began to _see _the girl and he found that over the months that perhaps she wasnt so plain after all. The sight of her became more pleasing to his eye, the sound of her voice sweeter on his ears until eventually, he found himself thinking much less of the comfortable life marriage to her would bring him and more of how comfortable his bed would be with her beside him.

He'd grown attached to her without even realising it. But these feelings were something new for Guyon; arrogant, egotistic man that he had always been and he found it all strangely confusing. The growing affection gave him little pleasure and served only to vex him more than ever when she avoided his attempts to get close to her. These days, he found himself growing dangerously more and more impatient to possess her.

Aithne inclined her head respectfully, grateful that Guyon had seen fit to release her without further interrogation. Despite his fine looks, his perfect manners and attractively crooked smile, there was sometimes a coldness behind those blue eyes which touched Aithne from time to time, just as there was now and this often made her uneasy.

"Good bye, Guyon." She spoke quietly as she turned to walk away, swiftly putting him from her mind, whilst he just stood and watched as she hurried across the courtyard.

She was desperate to be gone and so quickly made her way towards the quiet of a storeroom which stood behind her father's bakery. She knew she still had a delivery to take to the kitchens at the keep but she just needed a moment to be alone, a chance to overcome the humiliation she'd felt beneath Tristan's frown and she was annoyed with Guyon for prolonging her anguish by not allowing her to flee. She'd been aware of Tristan even then; when Guyon had waylaid her escape and kept her talking outside the Blacksmith's. She was certain he had been stood just out of her peripheral vision. She could even swear she felt his eyes upon her for a short while, if she hadn't been so eager to dismiss it as merely her imagination.

Aithne swept inside the dusky storeroom and sat down on a pile of flour sacks with an exasperated bump which sent a cloud of flour swirling around and settling upon her hair and shoulders. For the love of the Gods, he must think her a ridiculous, clumsy specimen, she whined to herself. She'd behaved like a tongue-tied imbecile in front of him and oddly it hurt Aithne to believe he would think of her in such a light.

She groaned aloud and dropped her weary head in her hands. She was being absurd and she knew it. He probably didn't think of her at all...and even if he did, why should she even care what he thought of her anyway? Besides, she didn't like him…_did she_? 'No' she thought obstinately, he was grubby and unkempt and she convinced herself he must smell as bad as he looked (although she knew by experience this at least wasnt true, it just suited her better not to remember!). To her, despite his now being free, he was still every inch the barbarian slave, unnerving her constantly with his dark and moody manner? She could be standing a whole battlefield away from him, she was sure and she would still feel the brooding intensity emanating from that silent scout. Just sensing his presence made her spine tingle and it scared her.

'But then', she thought, 'he probably scares everyone'.


	3. Chapter 3 Cinnamon

**A big 'thank you' to all of you who have supported and encouraged me over the last few months and everyone who has taken the time to read and/or review – you know who you are and you are wonderful! **

**Sorry it's taken so long to get this story going again but I think I'm getting my mojo back now! :D**

**Chapter 3 - Cinnamon**

A sudden, indignant thump at Tristan's door seemed to rattle his teeth as much as it rattled the old wooden door it was battering.

"Sunrise!" The voice of a night patrol soldier bellowed outside, telling the scout it was time he was up from his bed. Tristan raised his heavy, aching head to spit out a curse in reply and groaned from the pain the effort caused.

_The Gods be damned!..._ but had he really supped so much ale last night? He rubbed at his eyes and then opened them with tentative care, squinting at the warm glow that still emanated from an iron brazier in the corner of the dark room.

Evidently he _had_ _so_ supped that much judging from the less-than-enticing body that lay sprawled beside him in audacious disarray. Tristan groaned with mild regret as the fragmented memories of the previous night's ghastly drunken tussle began to creep their way back.

Damn Bors, it was all _his_ fault! Drinks all round for the father-to-be..._again_! And then another...and another.

Grimacing at the reek of unwashed bodies and spent lust which assaulted his already fragile senses, he muttered an oath, hoping he wouldn't be paying the price for his dubious taste in bedmates last night. Not that he'd ever really been the fussy sort. So long as a wench didn't have the pox, had at least a few of her own teeth and was willing that was usually fine by him - but if this one next to him now, looked anything like she smelled….._another __groan…_ Just at this moment in time, he was thankful for the lack of decent light.

Tristan rose up slowly, bracing himself for the inevitable thrust of pain that would sear between his brows any moment. Squeezing the bridge between his eyes with thumb and finger, he gave a hiss and a curse as it did just that. The naked tangle of hair and limbs beside him stirred and then settled back down, snoring softly.

Tristan's frown deepened, irritated that the woman was still in his bed. He couldn't recall who she was and didn't really care either, she wasn't one of his usuals. If he could have remembered it, he was sure she'd probably not been worth the coin anyway and he wanted her gone.

"Get outta here!" he growled suddenly, slapping his companion's scrawny bare rump.

The woman swore but paid no further heed, instead just snatching up the single woollen blanket that lay heaped at her feet and entwining herself within it.

Tristan rose up from the bed scratching at his whiskers and grimacing at the rough, stale memory of wine and sex on his breath and tongue. He felt sick.

Spying a large pitcher on the table nearby, he grabbed it and quickly guzzled down what little wine there was left, pursing his lips as he swallowed the bitter dregs. It did little to alleviate the foulness of his mouth but it was better than nothing.

Tristan slammed the pitcher back down with deliberate force but the woman didn't flinch, she merely continued to snore. He stared dispassionately at the black-haired form for a moment, realising that the wench wasn't for moving any time soon and so he pulled on his breeches and boots, grabbed his shirt, hauberk and weapon off the floor and made his way to the door, kicking the wooden cot as he passed.

"Don't let me find anything missin' when I get back"

**vvvvvvvv**

Outside, Tristan strolled the few yards to a large horse's trough that stood close to the stables. With each step he took, he breathed in deeply of the cool dawn air, slowly clearing his head and glad to be free of the stench of his room. He threw down the weapon and clothes he carried as he reached the trough, then closed his eyes and thrust his head and shoulders deep into the icy water without hesitation. Coming back up he shuddered, catching his breath, running his long fingers through his sodden mane. The water never felt so good.

Opening his eyes, he saw her.

She looked different today. He could see it even from that distance and despite the still grey dawn light. She wore no hooded mantle and her long hair, which had been hidden from Tristan the last time they had met, lay loose upon her shoulders - somewhat tousled and wild he could see and yes, all the more attractive for it he thought. But then after the night he'd had, he told himself, most anything would please him at the moment.

She was bent over slightly, loading trays of bread upon a small hand cart when an older man appeared at the door of the bakery. He spoke quietly, Tristan could not hear what but Aithne glanced over her shoulder at him, laughing in reply.

How at ease she looked at that moment. She was taller than he remembered – her form strong and curvaceous, her face radiant even in this light. Vanora was right then, it must be him that made her wilt, body and spirit.

Tristan frowned at the thought and then dunked his hands into the water swilling it over his torso and arms. Keeping a pensive eye on the woman, he rubbed away the stench of sweat and coupling from his exquisitely formed warrior's body.

That done, he opened his breeches and scrubbed his manhood thoroughly without shame, before drying himself on his shirt, putting it on and then tying his breeches back up. She did not look his way but even in this dusky light, he knew at that moment, she saw him.

Shying away from his gaze, she swept swiftly back into her home, stumbling a little in her haste to get through the door. Tristan chuckled to himself at the sound of her murmured curse as the door closed to and she was gone from his sight. He was still grinning to himself as he turned toward the tavern with thoughts of a much needed morning meal and the smell of warm cinnamon in the air.

**vvvvvvvv**

"Are you gonna take all morn with that plate, Tristan?" Vanora hollered back over her shoulder as she walked into the tavern kitchen. "I've got kids that need feeding as well as you, y'know!"

Ignoring Vanora, Tristan took another small mouthful of cheese and chewed slowly, lingering over his food much longer than was usual. Next he picked up his mug and drank even more slowly than he ate. She was late this morning and he knew why.

It was just then the smell of cinnamon enticed his senses, moments before she appeared soft-stepped up to the tavern counter. He knew she'd tarried as long as was humanly possible and the thought made him smile and for the first time ever, he looked up at her arrival.

Aithne blanched as she glanced over to see the familiar figure sat leaning upon his elbows, still at his morning fast – a pair of dark honey-eyes staring back at her through a curtain of bedraggled and still damp locks.

Catching her eye briefly, Tristan acknowledged her with a silent nod but she turned her back swiftly without reply.

_Hell's teeth, had that little wench just slighted him_? Tristan frowned at her impertinent back for a moment and then quietly put down his mug.

"Is that you Aithne? My, but you're late this morning, Lass" Vanora called from the kitchen "I'll be right with ya"

Aithne was just contemplating how quickly she could dispatch her delivery and get out of there when she felt an unmistakable aura looming just a hair's breath behind her. She stood iron-rod still, praying for it to be anyone but him, but knowing that just couldn't be. After all, he was the only other there.

She flinched as he stepped beside her. Leaning upon the counter, he moved so as to see her face and just stared.

Aithne could feel the blaze of his eyes as they trailed up and down her entire length, slowly and deliberately brazen.

'_My god, but if he isn't looking me over as if I were a marketplace heifer!'. _Instinctively, she drew her mantle more tightly around her and tried her hardest to ignore him.

"I bid you, 'Mornin'" an accusing tone growled suddenly.

Aithne cringed and looked not at her accuser but at the tray of loaves on the counter top in front of her, wishing with all her might that she could be anywhere but here.

There followed an acute silence which Aithne knew she could not ignore.

"I'm sorry?" she asked finally, glancing up at Tristan but careful not to meet his eyes

"Just now, when you walked in… you didn't answer"

Aithne's cheeks burned. "Forgive me, Sir. I meant no disrespect. I'd no reason to suppose t'was I you greeted." she lied. Tristan gave a slow, sweeping look around the empty tavern and raised a sardonic eyebrow. Aithne cringed even further into her mantle, cursing herself silently for the idiot she was.

Tristan said no more, he merely watched, fascinated as the glow on her face and neck spread and deepened. He really wasn't accustomed to women who shamed so easily and oddly, he liked it.

He was more familiar with tough, brazen women - women more devoid of shame, who knew what a man wanted, who gave easily and expected little in return. Those were the women that usually suited his rather singular qualities, for he had always been essentially a selfish man where women were concerned. Selfish with his words, his attention and his emotions and the less he had to give anyone, the better for him. He had little need for the company of anyone who would want and offer him anymore.

And so it was, Tristan didn't really know to what ends he was taking the time to single this woman out as he did this morning. He knew her type - hard working, soft hearted - the type that makes a hard working, soft hearted man a good wife.

Not one that makes a hard hearted, selfish warrior like him, a good whore.

She was neither brazen nor easy that was for certain. This one would most surely want back far more than he'd ever been willing to give woman. But still, there was just something in those fawn-like eyes that had stared up at him so fearfully the previous morning that had intrigued him. When she'd arrived a few moments ago, he'd had no intention of an exchange of words with her. He simply wanted to satisfy his curiosity, amuse himself with her reaction to him…and perhaps get another look at that bonny figure she chose to hide away, into the bargain.

But here he was, regardless and there she was, staring up at him doe-like once again. Wrapped up tightly in her woollen mantle, more was the pity for him and waiting nervously for his reply. He had no idea what to say.

The silence stretched out unbearably between them. Aithne turned away from Tristan unable to stand the scrutiny of his unfathomable gaze any longer.

'_Hurry Vanora, for pity's sake!' _she begged silently, deciding that she was indeed just going to leave right now.

As if sensing her imminent flight, Tristan leaned closer and took hold of a stray lock of her tawny hair that peeped out from beneath her hood. It was as much a performance of mischief as it was an instinctive act to keep her from running away, for at that moment he just couldn't think of anything sensible to say to her that could serve just as well in keeping her next to him.

Without thinking, he raised the soft tendril to his nose and breathed in. _Gods but she smells good._

"…cinnamon..." he whispered huskily. How was it that he had never noticed this comely, sweet smelling woman before now?

Aithne stood rooted to the spot in stunned silence. Her heart beating 10 to the dozen…confused…breathless…overwhelmed. What on earth was he doing? She thought desperately, there really is something wrong with him.

"May I have my hair back?" she eventually dared to ask, a soft tremor in her tone, as if she were soothing a wild animal she was desperate not to provoke. She gently pulled on the strand of hair which laced through his fingers until she was free.

He stared at her a moment longer, a small smile curling at the corner of his lips and then he lowered his still outstretched fingers.

"My name is Tristan." He offered, as if it were the most natural response there was.

"I know" Aithne replied quietly and then left - surprised by the mild regret she felt in doing so.


	4. Chapter 4 Restless

**Thank you, as always, for everyone's kind words and encouragement :)**

**Chapter 4 ~ Restless**

The following days ambled by for Aithne much the same as any other uneventful day in her life – filled as it was, with the usual dose of the banal and the ordinary. The fretful night she had spent after her unsettling encounter with the knight Tristan, was followed the next morning by relief to find that it was Dagonet breaking his fast at Vanora's table. She had seen neither hide nor hair of Tristan since. Aithne knew the pattern of duty would mean that Gawain would take the dawn patrol after Dagonet, so she could allow herself to be at ease for a few more mornings at least, safe in the knowledge he wouldn't be there plaguing her sensitive nature with his intrusive presence. On the other hand, what she hadn't bargained for was his being there to plague her nights…

...Aithne awoke with a gasp, her eyes flying open, searching the darkness. Her hands clutched the neck of her night shift against her bosom, which heaved, rapidly with the thump of her heart against her frame. _God's breath!_ She swore to herself, as recollection of the dreams that had woken her teased the blatant plea of her body, which ached with a longing both delicious and raw. _Damn that man!... Why him?_

Ashamed and angry, she swiftly wiped away the beads of perspiration that had gathered on her forehead and lip and then, despite the heat of her body, coiled herself up into a ball.

How dare he come a-creeping into her dreams, like that? Was there to be no place to hide from him? She closed her eyes tight, determined to banish him from her mind and replace his ghost with that of her husband. She shifted and turned in her bed, frustrated by the effort, but she could conjure nothing more than a familiar haze of what had once been so vivid and perfect. Was the memory of Heith's delicate, young face fading so swiftly with time that it was forever lost to her? So it would seem, just as the sweet, painful longing which had woken her, faded quickly now with the slowing of her heart. Defeated, Aithne turned her face to the mattress and quietly wept.

**...**

High up on the battlements, veiled within the darkness, with the wind whistling about him, nipping at his clothes and face - stood Tristan. Feeling restless for sleep and strangely stifled in the confines of his small one roomed shelter, he'd risen from his cot and climbed the ramparts to seek the cleansing touch of the crisp night air and fill his lungs with its delicious taste. It was a cool night, but dry and Tristan welcomed the peace to be found up there at so late an hour.

All was quiet, but for the occasional shuffle of feet and hushed murmurs from the night patrol guards stood at their posts at various points along the wall. Tristan heaved a deep breath, letting it out as he leaned against the cold stone of the parapet in order to gaze down at the courtyard far below. Despite the late hour, there were still torches burning here and there and Tristan could make out the familiar shadows of tavern, stable and armoury. His eyes however settled on the small silhouette of stone which was the bakery, and a vision of the woman who lay within its walls sneaked into his thoughts.

Did she sleep easily this night or was she too, restless in her bed? He wondered if she lay there alone or instead, entwined in the limbs of a lover, their passions sated and content from their lovemaking, which was more than could be said for him.

That blacksmith, perhaps…did he share her nights? Tristan gave a dismissive grunt, surprised by the twinge of resentment the idea gave him. No, not the smithy, he was sure of it, remembering how they had looked together the morning he'd followed her out of the tavern. The morning she'd spilled his wine and soaked her skirts trying desperately to mop it up. Tristan smiled at the memory, remembering it as the first time he'd truly noticed her. It was the eyes that had caught him, staring up at him so huge and terrified as to be almost comical - and of course it did no harm that she carried a tidy figure either. He'd always like a woman with a bit of meat on her bones and she had it in all the right places. He'd been quick to notice that, at least…when he'd finally taken the time to notice her at all.

Tristan smiled to himself again, feeling more at ease now as the restless mood that had brought him out, faded away and inevitably his thoughts began to wander off in more a tantalising direction…Well he _was_ a man after all, wasn't he?

A knowing tug in his breeches soon brought him back to his senses.

_Shit!_ he cursed silently, reaching down to adjust the tender throb a little more comfortably. It served him right, he supposed and it was a sharp reminder that he'd been far too long from the warmth of a wench's body - at least one that he cared to remember, that is! He sighed, feeling tetchy once again. He was never going to get any sleep now.

**...**

Aithne's father ground his yellow teeth against the deliberate clatter of iron cauldron and ladle. The excruciating noise seared through his aching head like a hot blade through butter, as if determined to cause the utmost discomfort possible. And of course it was, for Aithne was in a foul mood that morning, sleep-deprived and knowingly frustrated as she was. It didn't help her humour that her father had not returned home from the tavern last night and instead had come sidling in all heavy eyes and sheepish, just as Aithne had risen to begin the morning bread-making ritual which was their life.

It was true her father did like a jar or two of an evening and maybe now and again he did spend his night with just a tabletop for a pillow, but never let it be said that he'd ever missed a day's honest work because of it – well, almost never. Besides, he was an amiable drunk and had caused Aithne no real hardship over the years, save worrying that he may do himself a mischief one day. This mood was not usual for his daughter, so maybe then, it was his unfortunate choice of conversation at the breakfast table that was the reason for her sour temper and acidic tongue.

"I'm only suggestin' it's time you thought about gettin' wed again…" Another crash against the porridge pot left him wincing and in no doubt what his daughter thought of that particular suggestion.

"So wot's wrong with him?" Her father persisted "I'm no judge of what you women see as handsome in a man, but I reckon he's the sort many a wench would hanker after"

"Aye, he's handsome alright!" Aithne retorted irritably "And the women do hanker after him! Trouble is, he know's it and is far too fond of puttin' 'em out of their misery for my likin'!"

"Gods woman! Hark at you! So you'd have him a monk and a saint would ya, while you're stood there, as proud and vain as a peacock, tossing his favour back in his face? Y' think you're Cleopatra herself, I swears you do!" Aithne glared across the porridge pot at her father, iron ladle poised in her hand and looking for all as if she were about to fly across the room and hit him with it. "I'm just sayin' daughter, y'in no place to be bein' picky!"

"Thanking you very much for reminding me of _that_, Da" she spat back, slamming the ladle back into the pot.

"Oh, don't be getting' all hoity-toity with me, you know what I'm saying. Good men are hard to come by, no matter how bonny the lass"

"All the more reason for me not to encourage him, if y'ask me!" She knew she wasn't pretty, but she still had her pride "I've had one good man, I'll not find me another."

"Guyon's a good man!" Aithne threw her father a sardonic look but said nothing. "He is so! He's no lackwit...that's enough to thank the God's for that is! He's young, strong…I'll wager he'll give you fine sons….I grant you, it is said he has a wandering eye for the lasses, but what young lad hasn't?"

Aithne let out an exasperated sigh "He could at least_ try_ and keep his fingers out from under every skirt in the village whilst he's sniffin' around at my hems, wouldn't you think!"

"What d'you expects lass, when you're as cold as a winter Coney? T'be sure, he'd settle down if you'd just hearten him on some, you see if he doesn't"

"Hearten him on?... Da, he cares nowt for me…you must see it, for he hides it poorly …he wants nowt else but a comfy life away from the furnaces and it just happens for the nonce, I'm the only woman in the village free to give him that. D'you thinks he'd still snuffle about my ankles if miller's wife suddenly found herself in an empty bed?"

"The god's forgive you for being a temptress of fate, girl!"

"Oh, Da! Give over" She snapped, dismissing his superstitious nonsense angrily as she slopped a ladle full of porridge into a bowl "A man like Guyon brings nowt but misery to a girl like me. Aye, mayhap he'd settle a while at first, but it wouldna be long afore he's casting his eye on prettier maids than me again…" she stopped what she was doing for a moment and then went on, quietly and more thoughtful this time "He'd break my heart, Da…. and I'm not strong enough to bear that again"

Her father said nothing for a moment, guilt nibbling at his heart at the reminder of the grief his daughter had suffered losing the husband she had loved so well. Moreover, not only her husband, Heith but her mother also, and so swiftly after. Aye, the greed of the Gods had been hard to slake that winter that was for sure. He felt the grief sorely himself but he never was a one to share it. He was realistically minded and a practical man and he wanted only what was best for his daughter. He knew he wouldn't be around forever to take care of her.

"I say you judge him ill, child." He persisted stubbornly "Tis only natural for a man to look for reward in wedlock, even poor folk like us… But to say he doesna care for you!" His eyes softened as he went on "how could any man not care for my beautiful girl?"

"Beautiful!" Aithne snorted, not in the least convinced "Da, every daughter's a beauty in their father's eye. Guyon, like any man wanting a wife, doesn't look at me through father's eyes….I'd be fighting lovers off with my ladle if it were otherwise"

"Bah!. You're bein' a fool"

"I'm being truthful"

"You'll die a lonely old crone!"

"Then, so be it! Now eat y'porridge!"

**...**

Late that afternoon, satisfied that all her chores of the day were in order, Aithne had grabbed an apple, wrapped her mantle across her shoulders and set out on her way towards a meadow that lay in the shadows of Badon hill. Her father had already ambled his way back over to the tavern with promises that he wouldn't tarry so long there.

'Just a jar or two, sweeting' he'd said as he was leaving _'a pitcher or two, more like'' _Aithne had thought to herself, relenting to the fact that it wasn't worth wasting her breath saying so out loud. The truth was, she found it hard to scold him for one of the few pleasures he had. He was a good man, he worked hard - he deserved a little something to look forward to at the end of a hard days graft.

Just a short stretch through a forest which edged the meadow and a leap across a small stream, there was to be found a quiet little copse. There stood an oak tree so old that it took three people, arms out stretched and fingertips touching, to circle its enormous body. This was Aithne's place. A place where she and Heith had spent endless hours playing together as children. A place of happy memories, comfort and peace.

It was for the much needed solace of this sanctuary, that Aithne sort to venture there this afternoon, but much to her annoyance, it was to evade her just a while longer, as Guyon had accosted her on her way towards the courtyard gates. Word had arrived that the merchant ships had docked at the harbour town of Arbeia about eight miles to east of the Badon Fort. The markets there would be bursting with life and Guyon, like most who were able to, would be hurrying along there in order to have the pick of the best provisions before it was shipped inland to the surrounding towns and forts. As the old Smithy's apprentice and general dog's body, he of course was charged with the task of travelling to the harbour markets in the morning, to select and barter for the family's supplies. Seeing it as the perfect opportunity to manoeuvre time alone with Aithne at last, he had wasted no breath in seeking her out to persuade her to accompany him.

"Come on, Aithne…would you just consider it?" his voice was deep, slow and as smooth as honey "There's none I'd rather share the day with."

Aithne smiled up into the dark lashed, crystal blue eyes that sparkled down at her so persuasively. It would be so easy to believe he truly did desire her company more than he desired anybody else's and at times, it was a struggle for her not to be swept away, so convincing was he. His devastatingly charming smile could test the Christ's mother herself, when he had a mind to do so. The only thing that saved her from finding her neck in the snare was that practical side of her nature bestowed on her by her father. She had always believed herself lacking the beauty that wins the eye of handsome devils like Guyon and therefore how could he be true? That was the fortune – or perhaps misfortune – of girls with eyes as clear as rock pools, hair the colour of summer wheatfields and smiles that dazzled like the sun. Aithne considered her autumn eyes too dull, her brown hair too wild and her shy smile too awkward.

"Oh Guyon, I really don't think..."

"I promise to behave" he interrupted smoothly, his body leaning relaxed against the storehouse wall, long black hair swathed across his shoulders in attractive disarray, lips smiling lazily down at her.

Aithne groaned inwardly. She hated that look, he could melt her with it if he tried just a little harder and the gods help her if he ever realised it. Not to mention the fact that she was sorely tempted by the prospect of visiting the harbour. A place she had only been but a few times in her life and would love so much to see again. Nevertheless, to accept his invitation, she knew would be unfair to him and perhaps not the wisest of choices for her.

"I'm sorry, it wouldna be fitting…me being a widow an' you unattached. People would get to talking and..."

Guyon laughed, trying to stifle a hint of impatience in his tone. It was always the same tired, old excuses.

"Would that be so bad..." leaning closer, "…_honestly?"_ he reached out a finger to sweep it gently across her cheek but Aithne flinched back, purely on instinct.

Guyon masked a frown with another slow smile, but he could not hide the flash of coldness, which touched his eyes. Aithne coloured, embarrassed by her hasty rejection. She opened her lips to apologise but then caught his fleeting look. It reminded her once again, why she was right to keep the distance between them.

"Forgive me, sweeting… I meant no offence" his enticing mask now back in place, he moved away slightly, giving her space "I lost all propriety, but you make that so easy to do."

Aithne tensed at the endearment and lowered her head, not wanting him to read her thoughts._ If only he meant it, if only he didn't…_

"I'll not be able to settle if you don't forgive me" he grinned, teasing her good-naturedly now as if the wound from her minor rebuff had never been. He was about to reach out and raise her chin and then thought better of it.

He was such a confusing man, Aithne believed she knew his motives but his thoughts, that seem to change direction so quickly and so often like a swift in flight, were so difficult to unravel.

Aithne could do little more than what was being asked of her.

"Guyon, there's nothing to forgive..._you_..." Aithne's voice trailed away to a whisper as she looked up.

There coming towards them, on the back of a large grey stallion, was Tristan. It seemed to Aithne he was staring directly at her, and in a most inappropriate and arrogant manner. Immediately, memories of that which had woken her last night leapt into her thoughts, rendering her powerless to stop the heat soaring to her cheeks.

Suddenly realising he no longer had her attention, Guyon glanced over his shoulder, following the trail of her eyes. He caught sight of the knight immediately and his eyes darkened. He turned back to Aithne, scrutinising her closely. She had pinked somewhat and dropped her eyes again. Guyon's own grew darker still and he tensed as he felt his hackles begin to rise to the scent of another wolf on the prowl.

Aithne could feel the stallion passing so close now and the dark honey eyes of its rider burnt her. She gave a nervous cough, gathering the courage to meet them again.

By the Gods, what a sight he was up there - straight backed and stoical faced, the breeze whispering through his long hair, revealing a face perfectly carved, sun-kissed and rugged. Dark ornate flashes sweeping high on each cheekbone. A full lipped, down turned mouth framed by untidy silver-tipped whiskers. A bedraggled vision of primitive male beauty - dangerous, frightening, entrancing. There could be no denying it; For whatever reason it may be, he quite simply stole her breath away.

He once again greeted her with a single nod, trapping her in a gaze that sparkled with challenge... _slight me again if you dare!_

How could she dare? Aithne inclined her head in reply. When she looked back up at him, he was no longer looking at her, but straight ahead, expression unreadable as if their exchange had never been. However, a curl glimmered at the corner of his mouth. She could swear it.

Aithne's heart pounded along with the slow, heavy rhythm of the stallion's hooves as they faded away.

Guyon pushed himself up from the wall, staring past Aithne, watching the knight ride on through the bustling courtyard and then disappear out of the gateway. He felt a sickening throb festering deep down inside.

"Aithne" he growled slowly "Stay away from him"


	5. Chapter 5 Talking to Ghosts

**Thank you everyone for taking the time to read and/or review. It's much appreciated. **

**This chapter carries straight on from the last, it being just an hour or so later in the day. **

**Chapter 5 – Talking to Ghosts**

Tristan drew the arrow firmly through the warm fleshy rabbit carcass, wiping the blood from its shaft and tip on his breeches before reaching over his shoulder and dropping it back into his quiver. Holding the lifeless quarry up, he admired his shot before tying it feet first to the saddle of his waiting stallion. The horse snorted and stamped the earth impatiently with his hoof. He was bored with chewing at thistles and eager to be away.

"Alright now, you bad tempered old bastard...I'm done' Tristan growled as he hauled himself up into the saddle.

The stallion moved eagerly on without encouragement, heading straight for the path that would take them back to the fort. Tristan, who had every confidence in his faithful companion, was happy to give him full rein and just relax in the saddle a while.

They meandered their way quietly through the trees at a leisurely pace, their thoughts on nothing much else but cooked rabbit and fresh, sweet oats respectively, when the sound of a distant voice caught the attention of both man and horse. Tristan pulled on the reins and cocked his head, listening intently, trying to establish where and what he was listening to. Another faint monologue whispered over the breeze. A woman's voice without doubt and just over the hill to the west of him if he wasn't mistaken, and he never was. A distinct giggle followed - '_not in any trouble then_.'

At that, he would normally have just gone on his way, but it seemed to Tristan something more than idle curiosity was inviting him to ride up to the brow of the hill and take a look. Knowing better than to ignore his instincts, he turned his stallion's head and spurred him on up.

The trees faded out on the other side, he saw and as he gazed below, he could see the stream and beside it a small mossy glade. Lying at the foot of a large oak tree, which stood at the edge of the clearing, was a woman - just as he'd thought, but not how he'd expected - on her back, skirt fallen to her hips, bare legs stretched up in the air, wiggling her toes and chatting away as if a companion lay next to her. This, Tristan thought odd indeed, as with a sniff of the air and a swift, sharp scour of the surroundings, he had already established there was no one else around.

He watched fascinated, leaning forward, his elbows across the saddle and scratching thoughtfully at his whiskers, enjoying the sight he'd stumbled upon and not concerning himself that he was trespassing on this woman's secrets. Besides, he thought, what harm was he doing? He'd move on quietly again in a moment and she'd be none the wiser.

She laughed again, dropped her naked legs to the ground with a playful thud and sat herself up.

Tristan didn't recognise the limbs that had been flaying about so brazenly. They were not particularly long or as spectacular as some he could think of, but a pleasurable sight on a spring afternoon, none-the-less. He grinned suddenly - that autumn coloured hair which lay braided upon the back now facing his way, on the other hand, he did know**...**

Aithne lay on her back staring up at her moss-stained toes silhouetted against high oak tree branches and the spring-blue afternoon sky. She wiggled them lazily above her head and laughed as she continued the tale she had been sharing aloud with the memory of her husband.

"Oh, Heith," she sighed, dropping her legs down and sitting herself back up "y'shoulda seen him. Bold as you like, stripped to the waist and dowsing himself down without a morsel of shame! I swear!... And then there's Guyon and y'know what I feel about that. D'you know what he said to me today?…."And on she twittered, picking the moss from her toes.

Aithne often came to the old oak tree to talk to Heith. As a rule, it seemed no one but she ever ventured there. It was perhaps the only place she could be entirely alone and she liked that. She could mull over her thoughts in silence or share her troubles aloud to a husband long gone but whom she fancied could hear every word, and that was comfort enough to ease the niggles and doubts of most of her day-to-day woes. And Heith was not a one to answer her back or offer advice she didn't wish to hear either, like her father was always set to do and that was always a welcome relief. Well, not always perhaps. Yes, she loved the solitude of this special place more than anywhere else she could imagine. Besides, if anyone were to hear her seemly conducting a conversation with herself, they would surely think her a loon, which was why her heart flew to her mouth the moment she heard the familiar tarnished voice call out.

"Do you make a habit of talking to your toes, then?"

Aithne's head snapped round and she gave a cry of horrified dismay. Her worst fears confirmed to see Tristan aback his grey stallion, looking down at her from the brow of the small incline close behind her. Humiliated by the thought of his eavesdropping on her nonsense and utterly mortified that he'd witnessed her baring her legs like a hussy in the most undignified manner, Aithne lost all sense of composure and panicked. She scrambled to her feet and began to flee bare-footed towards the forest across the stream, her sandals forgotten.

Surprised and somewhat piqued by the reaction, Tristan immediately took after her. Perhaps not the most sensible decision he could have made, but he'd be damned if he were going to have some chit of a baker's daughter running around accusing him of spying on her in the woods or worse, threatening her precious virtue. Which - he surmised - must be what she thought he was about, to have taken off screaming like a harpy in that way.

He urged the stallion on, catching her up easily as she stumbled over the rocks in the stream, her feet slipping and sliding on the wet grass of the embankment as she ran to make her get away. Tristan reined his horse around in front of her, cutting off her escape, and then swiftly round once more as Aithne cried out and frantically switched direction.

"Don't run from me!" he commanded angrily, as he took chase once again.

Aithne soon realised that his horsemanship was more than a match for her blundering attempts to evade him and so like a cornered doe, she froze. Horse and rider stopped before her, the huge stallion snorted, stomping restlessly from hoof to hoof, agitated and impatient from the scent of pursuit. He was eager for the chase and angry that it was denied him. Rider and quarry regarded one other in anticipating silence. Neither, it seemed, quite sure what action to take next.

Tristan frowned, cursing himself and wondering just how in the hell he had got himself in this predicament. _'So, you stupid bastard...what now?'_ The woman was terrified… _'just what else did you expect_?'…and he had no idea what to say, no idea what to do and absolutely no idea what had possessed him to think that taking chase after her was a good idea, in the first place!

Well, he'd always been an impulsive creature by nature, prone to acting on his normally consummate instincts, but this hadn't been one of his best, it had to be said. However, he could not deny that the episode had kindled in him a somewhat predacious and wholly male excitement. But he knew he mustn't think of that now though… maybe later, when he was alone.

He had to do something and quick – (but alas, not what he had a mind to do, for he was not an animal, despite what many thought of him, including this trembling, frightened woman in front of him) - the silent standoff was becoming rather absurd.

He decided diplomacy was the best choice. First, he had to ease her fear and glaring down at her from the saddle of this great, snorting beast was not going to achieve that in a hurry.

Aithne watched and waited, as he eased himself down from the saddle. She could barely breathe, such was the constriction of her fear-filled lungs, but she was determined to find escape somehow. Just as both his feet hit the floor she seized her chance and took off again, hopeful that if she could just reach the forest, he would give up and let her go, not wanting to risk his horse through the sharp spiny thickets. But she'd gone no more than a few strides when she was felled, the sound of linen tearing as she hit the ground knees first, pulling Tristan down with her as he grasped the torn folds of her skirt in his fist.

Profanities and shrieks rang out in unison; Aithne twisted and struggled onto her bottom to face him, all the better for her to attack, which she did with panic-stricken determination, smacking and kicking blindly as she tried to wrench herself free. Tristan scrambled to his knees, ducking and swerving the onslaught of arms and legs.

"Fuck's sake, will you calm down!" He yelled, just as Aithne clouted him across the head. However, there was to be no truce. So forgetting peace talks, Tristan simply dragged the hysterical woman towards him by the handful of skirt he still had grasped in his fist and dealt her a swift, well-timed slap across the face.

Much to Tristan's relief, the hysterics ceased immediately, with Aithne left gaping open-mouthed in stunned silence, a look of utter disbelief on her face.

"Bloody Hell, woman!" he snarled as he let go of her dress, somewhat breathless himself now "What's wrong with you?" he demanded. Still on his knees, he leaned back on his heels, regarding her with bewildered annoyance. Aithne just stared back at him equally bewildered and unable to speak. Rubbing the sting from her cheek, she felt her eyes fill with tears and a sudden sob broke.

Tristan felt panic rise '_Shit no, anything but this…. please!' _he could face a legion of barbarian berserkers across a battlefield without a shiver, but a crying woman…

"Don't start that," he grumbled half command, half plea as he leant over to pull her torn skirt over her exposed knees. His rather ill considered thoughtfulness however, was rewarded with another thump right on his whiskered chin. He'd let her get that one in, he knew he deserved it.

"Get away from me you animal!" Aithne spat, dowsing the tears from her eyes and drawing her knees up tightly to her chin. Pulling her senses together now, Aithne glared, the fury of self-protection quickly diminishing her frightened tears.

Tristan held his hands up in a submissive gesture "You've nothing to fear…I swear it…"

"You terrify an unprotected woman by chasing her 'round the countryside on that four-legged devil" she hissed "and then say she's nothing to fear?"

"I didn't start the chase…t'was you who ran!"

"How _dare_ you blame me!" Aithne gasped "I suppose y'think it a great sport runnin' defenceless women down like prey!"

"Not quite defenceless" Tristan replied with a sardonic arch of a brow as he rubbed the sting of her fist from his jaw. "Look, I was just on my way back to the barracks when I saw you"… _'and your legs'… "_sat by the stream. I just thought to pass a friendly word is all."

"Friendly word?" She roared, anger flushing her cheeks "I swear, I dare not even think what an 'unfriendly word' might mean to you" with her courage returning, she hauled herself to her feet, careful not to expose her legs through the tear in her skirt. Tristan followed her. "You're shameful, sir!" she scolded, now face to face with him.

"So…" The suspicion of a smile flickered on Tristan's lips as he regarded her closely. "There is a little fire in you after all"

Tendrils of wild autumn curls had escaped the confines of the tightly bound pleat that hung down her back and now fluttered upon her cheeks still wet with forgotten tears. A sudden image came to Tristan of her freeing the binds for him, smiling and shaking her head as untamed waves fell tumbling in a flurry of twists and turns across naked shoulders…'_What the f...!'_

Tristan cleared his throat, _"_Look, I didn't mean to scare you… but you took off screamin' an' yellin' and I just wanted to know why…I didn't want ya to think I was …I just thought that…"

_What had he thought?_ He was beginning to feel out of his depth, here. An alien emotion for him and one he was not prepared to allow to raise its ugly head. Not today. Not in front of this woman. He scratched at his whiskers, deep in contemplation and then asked,

"Why _**do**_ you always squirrel away from me as you do? I've never caused you offence, have I…before just now that is?" he added, throwing her an unexpectedly apologetic smile and shrugging boyishly.

That threw her. How was she to respond to that? Aithne felt her anger begin to slip away and in its place rose the familiar feeling of inadequacy and foolishness this man seemed always to stir in her.

"Well?" he asked, happy now to gain back his control and have the responsibility of explanations manoeuvred away from him.

"No, Sir," she muttered, feeling more than subdued.

Tristan waited, but it was clear he could expect no further enlightenment than that.

"You don't like me do you?" it was a simple, matter-of-fact observation.

Aithne didn't quite know how to answer that either. It would not be the truth if she simply said 'yes'. Tristan remained silent, compelling her to attempt to reply somehow.

"I…well...your manners do leave a lot to be desired, Sir. And if you don't mind me sayin' " Aithne gave him a wry glance "they tend to be a little…disturbing"

"So, you _are_ afraid of me?" it was a rhetorical question "… and so you should be, woman"

Aithne snatched an anxious look and then relaxed again when she met a teasing smile. He gave a smoky chuckle and shrugged again.

"There are many with cause to be afraid of me, Aithne…" Tristan went on "…but you are not one of them. Let us begin again, shall we?"

Aithne looked on perplexed as he took a step back and gave a short bow, a roguish glint in his honey-brown eyes,

"My Lady, greetings to you on this fine spring afternoon" he smiled as he came back up and added "I think that's how it's done"

It was no good, she couldn't help herself, she dropped her head trying hard to keep a straight face, the ridiculousness of the situation completely overwhelming her.

Tristan's own smile broadened knowing he had finally begun to whittle away the fortifications of her resolve. "There, now we can be friends"

_Exactly what did he think he was doing?…Friends?..Friends?...just hold on, you selfish whoreson…if you want anything from a wench it's a good lay and an empty bed in the morning…not this woman, you bloody fool, you'll not get anything for nothing here…just leave her be._

Tristan's conscience was forgotten the moment Aithne looked up and bestowed on him one of the sweetest smiles he could ever remember having been blessed with. A mixture of shyness, relief and maybe something else that he wasn't sure he ought to be hoping for. It rocked him for a moment…she really was quite delicious, despite her unremarkable legs.

His scrutiny sent her glowing again from top to toe and it occurred to Tristan that he was developing a rather perverse enjoyment from making her blush. He trailed his eyes along the heat from her cheeks to her neck and wondered with a sly curl of his mouth, just how far below her neckline it travelled. _Stop it!_

Disturbed by the curious pang of pleasure his look was giving her, Aithne quickly dropped her eyes.

"I must go" She said suddenly, her voice sounded shamefully husky to her and her colour deepened even more. "Tis nearin' supper time and…well…"

Tristan's eyes flickered back to her face, studying her thoughtfully for a moment. Without a word, he turned and strode towards his horse and began fumbling about with something tied to the saddle.

Aithne felt her whole body begin to relax with a strange combine of relief and disappointment, thinking him about to ride on his way. But it dissipated swiftly as he turned back to her and threw the carcass of fresh rabbit meat at her feet.

"You can cook, I take it?" He asked, amusement lacing his voice at the look of shock on Aithne's face. Bending over, he pulled a small, sharp blade from the inside of his boot and held it out to her hilt first. "I'll build the fire"

Stunned, Aithne just stared at the knife and then found herself admiring the long slender fingers which held it. Grubby and callous-tipped as they appeared, they were still beautiful to her, like his hand and the wrist that disappeared beneath a roughly stitched leather sleeve…yes, beautiful…just like the rest of him, she mused, remembering the morning he had stood washing beside the water trough.

Her heart was pounding ferociously once more and her breath so shallow that she felt herself waver on her feet. She forced her eyes to look up at the wild beauty of the face that was watching her closely from beneath lengthy, untamed locks and waiting for her response.

A line had been severed, she knew that. He had noticed her and she would be able to avoid him no longer. No more could she hope to hide safely behind the shadow of anonymity from this man who had always appeared so intimidating, so distant and aloof to her…and… _damn it, Aithne admit it_,… so bloody attractive. The thrill of it frightened her.

"Don't fear, Aithne" The God's above, but she almost swooned at the sound of her name spoken in that deep, rusty accent of his! "You're safe with me"

He gave her a coy smile, his warm eyes sparkling as if he understood her every thought. She knew at that moment she had nothing to fear from this man. It was the betrayal of her own treacherous basic instincts, starved and denied for so long, that she needed to worry about if she dared to stay alone in his company much longer.

_For shame, you stupid woman'_ she cursed silently, chasing such ridiculous thoughts away_ 'what's wrong with you?'_

She looked down at the furry, lifeless body at her feet, grimacing at the thought of gutting and skinning it and said,

"_I'll_ build the fire"


	6. Chapter 6 Hunger

**This is a simple chapter, inspired in small part by one of my most favourite scenes in period drama - thanks to the gorgeous and wonderful Toby Stephens for that! **

**Thanks to all for reading and/or reviewing as always. xxx**

**Chapter 6 – Hunger**

The Sarmatian knight and the baker's daughter sat either side of a crudely built spit and fire, looking out across the stream to the trees beyond. She, quiet and cross-legged on one side. He, body out-stretched, one boot over the other, leaning upon one elbow on the other side, saying nothing much else in return.

Tristan could still sense her tension, despite her agreeing to stay but then maybe she had only done so because she had been too afraid to refuse him. Had it been a polite request or a veiled demand, finely woven in that subtle, non-negotiable way of his? Tristan honestly could not be sure either way, but he wasn't going to trouble himself over minor details. He had wanted her here and here she was.

He had tried a few genial lines to draw her out from time to time, but not being particularly versed in the art of polite conversation, there was only so much he could do with the mostly monosyllabic answers he was given in return and so eventually, he had grown as silent as she. If the woman didn't want to talk to him, fine. Silence was no hardship to him, he was perfectly at home with silence. The constant nervous fidgeting of her fingers, on the other hand, was a different matter.

Aithne swore the nails on her fingertips would bleed if she picked at them any longer. She was trying to relax, she really was, but he'd not spoken a word to her for the longest time now and she imagined he must surely be regretting wasting his supper on such tedious company as hers. She could think of not one single thing to say that might interest a man like him and she was growing desperate…_and very hungry_...the longer the silence stretched on. She was having a difficult enough time as it was just trying to grasp how she had ended up sat here, sharing supper with a man who just a short while ago had had her in a hysterical state and convinced his sole intention was to attack and defile her. He had chased her down, torn her skirts, even slapped her face and now here he was cooking her food. The odd thing of it all was that she was happy for it!

She couldn't explain why, but despite all the months she had spent recoiling from him, right at this moment, she was exactly where she wanted to be. If only she was able to summon the courage to find her voice and share a little banter with him, then maybe she could relax a little and enjoy the company more.

Aithne shivered, the afternoon sun was beginning to fade behind the hills and had brought forth a chill in the air that reminded all that summer had not yet arrived. She wouldn't be able to tarry too much longer here or she would miss the twilight curfew when the fortress gates would be closed and locked until dawn. It wouldn't be the first time in her life she had spent a night curled up under a hawthorn bush in the forest due to her tardiness and so the prospect was not a particularly tempting one.

She glanced over towards her mantle, discarded in a heap beneath the oak tree along with her sandals and contemplated going to fetch it. Still a little shy of her companion though, she remained where she was, deciding that the heat from the pit fire would have to suffice.

Aithne sighed quietly and stole a glance at Tristan from the corner of her eye. She chewed at her bottom lip a while, deciding it was high time she stopped being so bloody spineless and spoke to the man, just as the tantalising aroma of the spit-roast rabbit filled her nostrils and enticed a ravenous rumble from Aithne's insides.

_Oh, no…how could you!_ She winced, thoroughly embarrassed. She discreetly clutched at her waist, desperate to stop it happening again and prayed the shameful noise had not reached Tristan.

"Hungry?" he asked over his shoulder, grinning to himself behind his whiskers.

"Aye, a little" Aithne flushed, smiling sheepishly "...you have the ears of a bat, I swear!"

Tristan sat up, looked over at his companion and smiled, leaning towards the spit and giving it a quarter turn as he did so. It was the first fully formed sentence she had spoken to him since the fire had been lit; he hoped it wasn't to be the last.

"I'd be a poor scout if I didn't" he replied shuffling himself round to face her now, his eyes discreetly exploring her shapely form as he did so.

"'Appen you would, Sir" Aithne said, frantic for something else to say as she felt another growl threatening. She added quickly "So, how is it you're still here, then? Did y'nay have a hankering for home when Rome deserted us?"

"Home...?" he asked as if surprised by her question "this is my home."

'_Good grief' _Tristan thought, '_she's actually managed to string more than three words together all on her own'_, He liked that even if, as he suspected, she spoke only to cover up the sound of her hunger pangs. Anything was better than nothing.

"I love this land, why would I want to leave it? I've bled for it for the last 18 years. …and like as not I'll bleed for it again, should those Saxons fancy their chances once more"

A sudden compassion flowed through Aithne as the certainty of those words sank in. The thought of this man beside her wounded and bleeding flowed through her heart and caused her a bolt of actual physical pain, shocking her with its intensity. Eighteen long years…that was a lifetime for some, she thought. Bloodshed, war, death - the horrors he must have seen…the horrors he must have committed.

Tristan felt the mood change and swiftly decided it was time to eat. He pulled off a hot crispy leg joint, tossing it quickly hand to hand to cool it down. When sufficiently cooled, he handed it to Aithne who thanked him gratefully, so ravenous was she by now.

He did the same again for himself and then shifting places; he got up, walked around the fire pit and settled himself down shoulder to shoulder beside a somewhat surprised Aithne.

The most delightful warmth caressed her through leather and linen where their bodies now touched and she found herself startlingly aware of him. However, she did not recoil; she had no wish to.

"That blacksmith..." Tristan asked after a while, plucking Aithne's thoroughly picked rabbit bone from her fingers and flinging it into nearby bushes along with his own. "…you his woman?"

"Nay! Not me!" Aithne almost choked at the thought. "If I was, I'd not be sat here with you!" Aithne blushed furiously, realising how suggestive her words sounded.

Tristan grunted thoughtfully but seemed not to notice "He seems…keen for it to be so" Aithne let out a mildly frustrated sigh, to which he added, "You think not?"

"Keen to swap soot for flour mayhap...tis not I that tempts him, I'm certain."

Tristan eyed her intently, "How so?"

Aithne shook her head regretfully "you think a man as fine-looking as Guyon, would really give an eye to me...? I am no fool; I know how much he hates that furnace and I know I'm no beauty"

"You're not?" Tristan asked, leaning closer as if he were searching for evidence of her declaration.

Aithne cast him a hesitant glance, expecting his eyes to betray the air of mockery that she failed to hear in his voice. She could fathom nothing from the warm ochre eyes that watched her closely and so chose not to answer.

"Shouldn't wenches like you be long married at your age…hampered down by a growing brood of wailing pups?" he asked suddenly, invoking memories for Aithne which stung sharply "How old _are_ you, any way?"

"Many summers less than you, I'll wager…judgin' by the looks of ya! " she snapped back with defensive haughtiness, only to find herself instantly sorry for it, for she realised quickly that his words had not been meant as an impertinent quip. His eyes told her he was merely curious and most likely unaware of her loss. She cringed, waiting for the affront that would surely follow, but Tristan gave only a dispassionate grunt.

"Well I'm younger than I look and older than I feel…" he muttered lazily "…that's army life for you"

Despite the casual reply, he seemed a little piqued, but Aithne couldn't be sure. She considered an apology, but relieved as she was not to be facing his umbrage for her blunder, she decided to say no more on the subject and let the sleeping dogs lie.

After a short while, Tristan lay down, threading his fingers behind his head as he stared up into the clouds, seemly lost in his own private thoughts. Aithne felt the loss of his warmth keenly.

"He's not so _fine-looking _anyway," Tristan protested quietly, a moment later.

Aithne frowned, looking over her shoulder at the outstretched Tristan beside her.

"Who?" she asked, puzzled "…Guyon?"

"Aye…and he can't shoe a horse for shit."

A brief silence followed and then Aithne suddenly burst into fits of laughter, a most welcome sound to Tristan's ears.

"What?" Tristan asked all feigned innocence, whilst sitting himself back up. He missed the touch of her shoulder next to his and had considered pulling her gently down beside him, but then thought better of it. He did not want to press his luck and end up scaring her off for good.

"Have y'any notion how peevish that sounds?" she laughed, blithely gripping his sleeve as she twisted around to look at him.

"Tis nowt but the truth" he defended, with a nonchalant shrug and a smile.

Did she realise when she turned to look at him like that, he could feel the full ripeness of her breast against his arm? He glanced at the small hand with it's nervously picked-at-nails that lay upon his arm… _don't let go_… then his eyes lifted to her full-lipped mouth, still laughing, rose-hue lips glistening. Was it just his wishful imagination or was that mouth asking to be kissed?

He wanted to touch her so badly it hurt, this mouth-wateringly warm, curvaceous body that sat temptingly close to his own, with its mossy green toes and unremarkable legs that he so wanted to see again and even more so, to feel wrapped around him. What were his chances? Was she ready for him yet? Dare he venture that far to find out?

_Shit _his breeches were coming to life and it was as uncomfortable as hell. Thank the gods they were so tight and his tunic long, or else he would never get away with it.

Torturing himself more, his eyes roamed her shapely form. Her body was pure temptress, but her face all innocence. What was he thinking? More to the point what was he _doing_? He told himself this was wrong. She was wrong for him, he wrong for her, but then why did it feel so right?

The longest silence fell between them and the air filled with a delicious, uncertain tension, the only sound that of the cool evening breeze which whispered through the trees. Aithne shivered again and slipped her hand from his sleeve.

"Tis time I should be goin'," she murmured regretfully, standing up and rubbing the tops of her arms for warmth. "I thank y' for the supper. Twas kind of you."

Tristan quickly followed and stood before her, absently dusting off the seat of his breeches as he searched for something to say, caught short as he was by her sudden and unexpected farewell. He didn't want her to go but what could he do, save try to prolong the inevitable.

"Twas nowt..."he shrugged dismissively, glancing at her through his long untidy locks and scratching casually at his whiskered chin. She caught his eye and held it and then they were quiet once again. They regarded each other tentatively for a few moments, as if one were waiting for permission to leave and the other were unwilling to grant it. The silence stretched on, awkwardness beginning to simmer beneath it and when Aithne shivered again, Tristan spotted his chance.

"You're cold" Tristan muttered quickly, and strode towards the oak tree to retrieve her mantle.

A few hasty strides and he was back. Allowing Aithne not a moment for protest, he swung the woollen cloak about her shoulders and gripping it tightly either side he pulled her close towards him. He felt her straining from him but did not let go.

Aithne looked up, wide-eyed and unsure what to do. Her initial instinct was to pull away, but she soon found herself unable to resist the inviting warmth of the body pressed so intimately to her own and yielded. It felt strangely right; just where she belonged, as she slowly relaxed against the embrace. They held each other's gaze once again as the silence lingered. Her heart quickened, her senses sparked and ignited, the musky smell of him deliciously tempting. She swallowed, wanting more and yet terrified to recognise it.

The unspoken moment stretched on as they continued simply to stare at one another. Tristan seemed neither prepared to act, nor yet let her go and she could bear it no longer.

_Do something, damn you _she silently begged him, for she knew she could not, but he did nothing save hold her tight.

Tristan swore he could taste her. He breathed deeply, recognising the feminine scent that whispered secrets to his primitive male instincts and sent them reeling. Just standing there, she was driving him slowly beyond his limits of endurance. Did she even know it? By the gods if he suspected for one moment she was wantonly offering herself he would take her now, he swore it. But those dark, innocent eyes wanted so much more in return. He would have to break this spell soon or she would be paying the consequences and no one would blame him.

"Sir," she whispered hoarsely "I must go...it grows dark...the curfew...I'll not get to the gates in time..."

"Curfew?" He frowned, still holding her tightly against him. Should the big bad wolf let the innocent fawn run free? The big, bad, _old_ wolf, he corrected ruefully...he was actually rather pissed off by that thought. Did she honestly think him _old_? The cheeky mare!

"_Please_ sir!" Her whisper asked for freedom, but he knew her eyes and her body did not.

However, this was not a woman who gave herself easily and yet it would be just that for him….easy. Just a gentle caress, a kiss, an enticing word and she would be his.

_We'll see who she considers 'old' then!_ He thought a little peevishly. _And what after that, you egotistic bastard? You just walk away?_

Did he honestly believe he could satisfy his lust and then just walk away? This was no whore whose only thought was for the coin. Nor a predacious Roman officer's wife who cared only to slake her own carnal desires neglected by a long absent husband. She was a simple woman, with a simple heart and he would shatter it if he used her the way he used most all women. What she expected from a lover, he did not possess to give her. Was that not the reason he had spent his life avoiding tenderhearted wenches like this one?

If there were ever a time he needed a conscience, it was now.

"You're right, what are y'thinkin' tarrying here so long." he growled suddenly, pushing her from him and abruptly turning away "Get off home" he snapped over his shoulder as he strode off to his horse.

Stunned, mortified and unquestionably abandoned, Aithne just stared at the knight now retreating into the trees towards his waiting mount. He neither slowed his pace nor looked back at her. She wanted to call out to him but could not. The brusque dismissal reeked of rejection and she had not the strength of character to face it. The gods above but what had she done to offend him so? Confounded shame gathered painfully at her throat in the form of a sob, but she fought it back with every ounce of spirit she could muster. What should she do…what _could_ she do? Turning away, she grabbed her sandals and fled through the trees towards home, letting the tears that stung her eyes flow free and tumble down her cheeks.


	7. Chapter 7 The Unspoken and the Unnatural

**Chapter 7 – The Unspoken and the Unnatural **

"Oh please, Sir…can you not let me in?..." she paused, catching her breath which was ragged and wheezy from the frantic sprint across the meadow. "Tis only a few moments past curfew. Have pity, tis a cold night," pleaded Aithne, through a small viewing hole in the sally-port door. She'd heard the curfew bell tolling just as she passed clear of the trees and had ran like a hunted elk to reach the gatehouse in time.

"I'm sorry miss, orders is orders. You know the rules. Gates'll be open again at dawn," answered the two eyes of the sentry on the other side. Aithne's exhausted heart plunged to her feet. Curse that bloody knight, this was all his doing.

"_Please…"_ she entreated once more, but to no avail as the iron slot slid shut, cutting off her words. Aithne let out an exasperated roar and dropped her head in her hands, catching angry tears as they flowed once again. _Damn, damn, damn! I hate that man, I swear, I truly hate him! _

"Let her in Cicero" a sudden voice commanded from behind, startling both Aithne and the sentry behind the door and the iron slot slid back open again.

Aithne wiped away her tears with a surreptitious sweep of her knuckles, but she didn't turn around. She recognised the voice of course and as relieved at that moment as she was to hear it, she'd walk burning embers before she'd speak to _him_.

"Yes sir!" the guard replied hastily, obeying the order immediately and without question. There was no doubt he too recognised the voice.

A scrape of iron across iron, a thud, a clang and the small inner door slowly opened, its hinges squealing in protest. Aithne could feel Tristan at her shoulder but determined not to be intimidated she pulled herself up tall and poked out her chin haughtily. Stepping through the doorway as soon as space enough allowed, she thanked the guard who smirked and threw her a knowing wink in return. Aithne glared at him, tempted to slap him and the infuriating sod behind her, who was no doubt smirking as well and doing nothing to contradict the idea that they were returning from a tryst in the heather. To her dismay, a guilty blush swept across her cheeks. The guard couldn't possibly see it through the twilight hue but it was enough for Aithne just knowing it was there and knowing that the reason for it could quite easily have been so. Now she wanted to thump them both more than ever.

Furious, she stomped off. Tristan stayed right on her shoulder leading his stallion by the rein beside him, and matching her step by step. When they were a safe distance from wagging ears, he called out her name.

Aithne's response was to hasten her steps even more and then break into a trot. Tristan stopped and watched as she slipped away across the courtyard, deciding it was perhaps best to let her go. He had no idea what he should say to her anyhow, hurt and angry as she was and who could blame the woman?

_Leave well alone_, he told himself. Leave well alone and let her be now. There were comely wenches enough around here…._and_ _with better legs_…that know their place, ask nothing of him and don't hog his bed in the mornings. If there's one thing he hated, it was sharing his bed! She'd hog his bed - her type always do. There'd be no kicking her out once he'd taken his fill. She'd want to stay all night, snaking her limbs all over his like some annoying clinging vine and taking all the blankets. Then, the gods forbid, she'd be pestering to share his meals, then his whole day, then his whole life!

_Bloody women_! He grumbled to himself as he turned back and made his way towards the stable. He'd settle the old nag down for the evening and then wander over for a jar or two at the tavern. He needed a drink, for oddly it seemed his spirits had fallen and now lay heavy and low.

**...**

Guyon sat alone at a tavern bench. The evening was still early and only a few were as yet scattered about the watering hole having a sup and a morsel to eat. Aithne's father, who had been sharing the table, had just wandered off, first to the privy and then on to refill the pitcher they were sharing. Guyon had joined the baker in hopes to discuss his daughter. He'd felt a sudden urgency to move matters on in regards to Aithne. The way that knight had looked at her today had been haunting him all evening. Worse still, the way she had looked back at him lit warning beacons amass. No one ever showed Aithne interest, no one. Everyone knew she was meant for him and there were none amongst the villagers would dare cross him. Even most soldiers of the garrison would think twice before tussling with Guyon. He stood at least half a hand above most men and was as broad as an ox. But this knight, this bastard son of a Sarmatian…he was another matter entirely.

Leaning forward on elbows, head lowered and face shrouded by long raven hair, he stared at the woman who appeared through the sally-port door on the other side of the courtyard and the mug of ale in his hand began to tremble slightly in his white knuckled grip. With the appearance of the man and horse close behind her, he winced as the muscles along his jaw twitched and strained to hold the fury that curdled in the deepest caverns of his stomach.

…

Her father had still not returned home she discovered, as she slammed the door behind her. Although she was relieved to have time alone to calm her ruffled feathers, she couldn't help being vexed some more that he'd not come home early as he said he would. Oh, whom was she trying to fool? She knew he'd be at the ale for the night. Aithne sighed, exasperated and sat down at the table, shooing a hen that had settled down quite nicely for the evening atop of it with one sweep of her hand. She leaned forward on her elbows and dropped her chin upon cupped hands. _I'll not think of him…don't you dare think of him…horrid man…horrid nasty man, with his horrid nasty horse and his horrid rabbit supper… _Aithne gave out an angry yell, thumped her fists on the table, stood up, grabbed a broom and then promptly began sweeping the floor with furious vigour - Anything to keep her mind from knights, rabbits and honey-brown eyes.

Home thoroughly swept and tidied and with no sign of her father returning, Aithne set about readying the ovens for the morning. The fires required lighting hours before to heat the stone and then hot ashes swept out ready for the loaves to be baked. Aithne always lit the fires of a night before going up the ladder to her cot in the eaves.

She cursed at the sight of the empty wood basket and then going outside, she cursed some more at the sight of the uncut logs beneath the wood shelter next to the bakery. This was too much. Never had she been a one to disturb her father at his drinking but tonight he'd feel the sharp edge of her tongue. She'd teach him to slope off to the tavern and leave her with no wood cut for the ovens.

The tavern area was a far more bustling place now, when Aithne came trudging towards her father and Guyon. The atmosphere was a generally genial one. Laughter, singing, the odd shout of protest at the poor roll of a dice. A typical evening, for a hospitable drinking den.

"Da...!Da!" Aithne called above the cheery din.

Her father and Guyon simultaneously turned to look over their ale mugs, both looking as surprised as each other at the sight of Aithne marching up to their tavern table.

"You told me, you would nay be late, Da – and there's no wood for the ovens!" she scolded, ignoring Guyon and glaring at her father.

"Ah sweeting!" soothed her father standing up to meet her and swaying a little "I was sure there were plenty…I'm sorry, my bonny hen" he said, holding his arms out to greet his daughter with a hug. She knew he was merrily in his cups but he looked at her with such heartfelt regret that as always, her annoyance melted away.

"Oh, Da!" she chided, unable to resist accepting his embrace "Well.. there's none…so I'm just telling ya!" Aithne muttered, her temper subdued now and a little tinged with guilt.

At that, Guyon stood up, smiling down at her from his towering height. Not one twitch or scowl could be detected on his handsome face. No one would ever guess the violence that had been swimming about his thoughts for the last hour, so composed was he.

"I'll be glad to cut wood for you, Aithne if you'd let me?" He offered graciously, his voice deep and smooth as melting ice.

Aithne turned to look up at Guyon, but caught the eyes of another in the crowd, stood behind him across the way, as she did so. To her dismay, her heart leapt at the sight of him…_curse that man again_..._curse her damned indicative heart_… Tristan stared at her briefly, not a flicker of emotion or recognition even and then turned his back without as much as a nod. He took a seat alongside his friend Dagonet and was instantly joined by pretty, dark haired woman who slid into his lap and curled her arms around his neck.

"Aithne?" Guyon's voice asked again

Aithne dragged her eyes back to Guyon.

"No, no...it's fine Guyon…" Her words faltered as she swallowed a painful bolt of grief. "I can manage….stay with Da, make sure he gets home safe…" she forced a smile on her face, bid farewell to both and tried to walk away but Guyon caught her arm.

"For goodness sake!" she hissed angrily, hurting and desperate to be gone "I told you I can manage"

The look on Guyon's face said it all and Aithne quickly apologised, feigning excuses and soothing him with reassurances. To her relief, he eventually agreed to let her go, alone - albeit tainted with the tone of tightly leashed anger through clenched teeth.

…

Aithne swung the axe high, staggering a little as she brought the weight down upon the log. It landed with a dull thud, embedded deep down inside the hardened tree flesh. She strained at the handle, trying to prise the axe-head out but it was stuck fast once again. She cursed and struggled some more but still it wouldn't come free. _I will not think of him again, I will not! _

"Damn, blast and bugger it!" she cried in anguish, tears threatening. Her arms and shoulders ached like the devil, her hands were burnt and blistered and still she could not banish the sight of that arrogant pig and his hussy.

Another curse and she tried again, bending over the axe, readying her grip and pulling with all her might, stopped suddenly by the touch of a slender hand covering hers.

Tristan felt the pleasant warmth of her hand creep through his fingers and the gentle kiss of her loose braided hair, which fell forward over her shoulder. For just a moment, the feathery tips fluttered lightly over his hand, making his skin tingle.

Aithne gasped with surprised, shoving away his hand and stepping back as she stood up. She'd been oblivious of his approach as her stunned expression confirmed.

"What do you want?" she demanded rudely, scowling at him as if he were the devil himself and rubbing frantically at the hand he had touched, as if scorched by flames.

"I thought to help you with the axe, twas all. You seemed to be struggling" Actually, he had no idea what he was doing here but what sort of an answer would that have been?

"Nay...That's not my meaning!" she snapped, frustrated and angry. All the emotions of the most unusual and confusing day of her simple life pent up and bursting to explode "Why do you pester me so?"

"Pester you?" Tristan frowned, he expected her to be vexed with him, but he'd not prepared himself for a conversation like this.

"Aye, pester me...tis true and you know it is so!" She barked, thrusting her hands on hips and glaring across at him "Always makin' me talk to you, when I don't wish it…then ignoring me when _you_ wish it...and…and…chasing me round the countryside like I was a prize boar…then the next, casting me off like some chewed up ol' chicken bone. Not to mention just now at the tavern - you turned your back on me and then…then that…" Aithne just managed to stop short of mentioning the woman. The humiliation was enough as it was without him thinking she had any care about that.

Tristan let out a short incredulous laugh "It was you who went scurrying off when we got through the gates. I called to you and you ignored me"

"I was angry; you left me in the woods alone, when night was comin' in!" she spat back. "What sort of a man does that!"

"I didn't leave you, You ran off!"

"You ordered me to 'get off home' like I was some hearth hound you owned, while you stropped off after your horse. And lord knows what I did to deserve that! You had every intention of abandoning me"

"I didn't abandon you, woman. Twas me that saw you got safely home" he growled defensively. Oh, this wasn't going well. This wasn't going well at all.

"Oh, did you really! Followed me all the way I suppose…"

"Aye, I did that…you had no need to worry, Aithne, no harm would have come to you"

"Tis you that worries me, Sir! You confuse me…your mood swings like a bough in a gale…I don't understand you…"

He wanted to say that he did not understand himself either. He didn't understand why he'd pushed her away in the woods, when every hair and fibre of his being ached to hold her close. Just as he did not understand why thoughts of her had lingered with him since the moment she had spilled wine on his morning fast. Or why he longed to hear her voice that so barely spoke, or look upon her face so often hidden when there were pretty faces aplenty waiting for him, should he want them.

He didn't understand why just an hour ago, he had vowed to leave her be and he had meant it. Then she shows up at the tavern all flustered and snippy and the sight of her there lifted his dark spirits like a veil in the wind. She seemed to be threatening the whole balance of his uncomplicated life and he bloody well didn't understand that either!

"…You play games with me, sir...I'll not be made sport of, not by you or anyone…" Aithne warned and she meant it.

"Aithne…I'm not making…"

" … I beseech you, sir" she interrupted, refusing to listen to his excuses, determined only to get her answer "What it is you _want _of me?"

Tristan stared at her with a look of ambiguous honesty.

"I really don't know, Aithne," he murmured huskily, whilst wanting so much to pull her into his arms.

"Well I know what I want…" she dragged the words from the pit of her stomach; they came out fighting not truly wanting to be spoken. "I want you to leave me alone. You trouble me, sir and I don't like it. If there is any morsel of civility in you, please do as I bid"

Tristan looked thrown for a fleeting moment, but said nothing. He seemed to struggle as if searching for a reply and then gave up. Heaving a long, deep breath, he hesitated, then simply inclined his head respectfully and walked away.

**…..**

Some hours later, along the darker district of the city fort, where the wenches lived and plied their trade, stood one small hut in particular. Outside could be heard the usual muffled sounds of fervent male lust. Inside, the quiet whimpers of female pain.

The girl bit down hard on her knuckle to stifle her cries. Best not cry out, it only makes them worse. It'll all be over soon, think of the coin, think of your baby, think of anything…. But the girl did cry out. Body bent over and head crushed against the table top by an unimaginably strong hand, fingers digging into her skull deeper and deeper with every excruciating thrust inside of her. Aberrant, agonising, she knew some men preferred this, unnatural as it was and it wasn't her first time, but never had she felt such pain as this – he would kill her, she swore – imagining insides torn to shreds, bleeding…oh god there would be so much bleeding. She cried into her fist again as the onslaught continued. He began to shout out, his thrust becoming more murderous with every yell. The faster he thrust, the louder he cried out a barrage of lascivious and brutal filth. All of it interwoven with one name over and over. '_Aithne_'

With one final plunge, he filled her to the hilt, yelling the name as his seed spurted violently forth. Panting, gasping as his release eased away, he withdrew with an exhausted whimper. He then wiped clean his waning member on the girls skirts, pulling them over her exposed buttocks when he was done, disgusted by the sight of her. He pulled up his breeches and threw a coin on the table. The girl slowly, painfully eased her head from the table, and then fumbled for the coin that had rolled off the table and landed on the floor by her feet.

She was plump little thing, with long, wild chestnut curls and a pretty face marred only by a scar on her lip and a broken front tooth. A typical souvenir from an over-zealous customer in the past. One of many and all too familiar, more was the pity for girls like she. It was easy to understand Guyon's choice in the girl – the resemblance, though not remarkable, was satisfactory enough for an imaginative mind.

"Is that it? One stinking coin…after that?" she cried, wincing in pain as she stood back up "I'll not work for weeks, Guyon"

"Fucks sake, Merylin, you aint worth no more than that." He growled, looking up at her as he straightened himself out more comfortably down the front of his breeches and tied up his laces

"You bastard! You want to use my backside, you pay more….d'ya hear me or you don't come back here no more!" she yelled, stabbing an angry finger his way "An' another thing. I'll be whatever slut you want me to be when you're fucking me, Guyon but that's gonna cost you extra 'an all"

The back-hand had struck across her face before she had chance to see it coming, knocking her across the room. She fell in a heap, clutching her jaw that was already swelling and glowing an angry red.

"She is no slut, you fucking whore, you! You keep your filthy trap shut and don't ever mention her again!... D'you hear?" Guyon was glaring down at her with murderous intent.

Merylin nodded hastily, averting her eyes from his, desperate not to enrage him further. It wasn't the first time she'd had the pleasure of one of his fists. But she was an experienced whore and knew how best to placate him and save herself another thump. She stayed quiet and still, waiting for his rage to pass as it always did with unsettling, unnatural speed.

And she was right. Guyon suddenly dug his hand in his breeches pocket and threw two more coins at her. "That's my girl" he soothed, his tone a perfect contrast and smiling softly as if nothing had happened. Merylin swore she didn't know which side of him was the more frightening.

With that he bent over her and kissed her forehead; just once, gently - the tenderness of it terrifying, and then he turned and left, shutting the door quietly behind him.

Merylin stared at the closed door and thought of 'Aithne', wondering who she might be. 'Poor cow' she muttered aloud as she eased her throbbing, tender body up off the floor.


	8. Chapter 8 Thoughts and Promises

**A huge thanks to everyone for all your support and for your constructive and much appreciated comments. **

**Again this chapter follows immediately on from the last. **

**Chapter 8 - Thoughts and Promises**

The evening grew late but the ale and song still flowed at the tavern. Although the same could not be said of the atmosphere at Tristan's table, where the ale may well have flowed in abundance, but there was certainly no evidence of merry song to accompany it. At least, not since Galahad passed into inebriated oblivion.

Beside a distinctly solemn Tristan, the young knight lay sprawled, cheek down upon the tabletop, with a half empty mug of ale precariously wedged between the fingers and thumb of an unconscious hand and a small slaver of slobber pooling at the corner of his distorted lips. The only conversation he offered was the whistle of deep, heavy breaths through his teeth and an occasional incoherent mumble or grunt.

Galahad, celebrating a rare and princely win at Jactus, had (not surprisingly) been well in his cups by early evening and had lost his battle with consciousness some time ago, which suited Tristan's tetchy humour just fine for he was in no mood for conversation. Besides, Galahad's incessant crowing over his victory had been slowly but surely straining Tristan's usually inexhaustible control. He'd been but a hair's breadth from punching the swagger from Galahad's face when, lucky for Galahad, he finally succumbed to the copious amount of ale he'd supped and fell forward into intoxicated slumber with a thump.

Relieved, Tristan had relaxed - but only marginally. In truth, he was still stinging from Aithne's abrupt dismissal earlier on. She had wounded his pride and, (though more reluctant to confess it) she had wounded him and he could make no sense of it.

Sat with feet upon the table, one ankle across the other, slouched low in his chair with his whiskered chin resting on his chest, Tristan quietly drank his ale whilst scowling through his shaggy mane at the table across the way.

He'd been watching Aithne's father ever since that blacksmith, Guyon had returned an hour or so ago and it didn't escape Tristan's notice that he held the look of a man well spent as he had sauntered lazily up the baker's table. For a while, Tristan mused lightly over what the man had been up to, only to find himself then plagued by a more murky petulance than he already nursed, as thoughts connecting to Aithne came to mind. He shrugged off that notion as best he could, reasoning with himself that she had no eye for that tall, fine-looking young buck….she'd told him so herself, hadn't she?

But even if she did have a fancy for the bloke, why the hell should he care, anyway? Tristan took another long, pensive gulp of ale. He knew the answer to that more than he cared to admit - so what was he going to do about it?

The knight's scowl darkened as he continued to examine what he had unwittingly begun to think of as a rival. He got the feeling Guyon was distinctly aware of what lay in his own peripheral vision and that he himself was being scrutinised just as closely.

"Y'wanna go someplace, Tristan?" purred a husky voice suddenly, teasing his ear with tongue and teeth. So absorbed in his thoughts was he, the proposition had caught Tristan quite unawares. Surprised, he turned his eye swiftly to the hefty, buxom wench who had approached unseen and was now leaning over him.

Normally, one glance at that deliciously large bosom spilling from the confines of the loosely laced bodice and thrust so wantonly in his face, would have had him up and off behind the stables in an instant. Instead he snapped.

"Do I look as if I do?" surprising himself with the bolt of annoyance he felt at the woman's intrusion.

"My, my Tris! aren't we the moody 'un?" she crooned with a lascivious pout, curling an arm about his neck and slipping a probing hand down the front of his shirt, caressing the rise and fall of solid muscle as her fingers journeyed towards his breeches. "_I knows wot you be needing_…"

"Clear off, woman" he snarled, angry at her persistence and more than aware of the hawk-eyed glance that flickered in his direction.

The woman released him immediately, the sultry temptress act diminishing with a nonchalant sneer "suit yerself." She chirped, unconcerned by the rejection. She gave a quick glance at the inebriated youth lying splayed across the table top and decided instantly there was no business to be had there, either. So, with a thwarted sigh and a shake of her head, she took herself and her abundant attributes off to find a more obliging customer.

Tristan settled himself back in his chair and raised his mug, drinking slowly as he returned his attention back to perusing the smithy's apprentice sat with the baker.

Tristan frowned behind the rim of his mug as he drank; wanting to catch the pale blue eyes that he was sure returned the scrutiny just as covertly and was annoying him more and more to know it.

Guyon leant forward on his elbow, ale in his hand, long black hair hanging forward, shrouding a face deep in conversation. Whatever they spoke of, it was more than a passing of the time or a tale between friends. The baker's face looked worse for drink but he was obviously trying hard to listen intently. He seemed to hesitate, slowly comprehending whatever it was being asked of him. Then with a grin, he nodded in agreement. Guyon sat back suddenly, black hair sweeping over his shoulders to reveal sharp, handsome features and there it was; he knew he had been right.

Cool, ice blue eyes met fiery ochre ones and unperturbed, Guyon held the exchange for a moment long enough for Tristan to get the definite sense of unspoken challenge. Guyon turned back to Aithne's father and stood up, reaching out to shake his hand, a crooked, triumphant smile curled upon his lips as he walked away. He looked well pleased with himself and Tristan didn't like it one bit.

Tristan would have got up and gone after him, such was the shocking stab of bitterness Guyon's insolent look had invoked. However, his uncharacteristic recklessness was steadied by the perfectly timed arrival of Gawain. Tristan resented the intrusion for only a brief moment. He wasn't in the habit of making a fool of himself, which most likely he would have done had he caught up with the man and he was soon grateful to Gawain for his unintentional interception.

Greeting Tristan with a nod, Gawain sat himself down, ruffling Galahad's still unconscious head as he did so. Galahad groaned and then began to snore.

Gawain grinned, reaching over to take the wavering mug from his hand and placed it safely out of reach. "I'd not like to trade places with him come mornin' "he laughed and then noticing his friend's surly frown he added "you seem pensive this evening Tristan. What ails you, my friend?"

Tristan dismissed the question with a brusque grunt, drained his ale, grabbed the pitcher and filled his mug back up.

Gawain chuckled again as he filled up his own mug, amused by Tristan's typically obstinate refusal to impart a confidence.

"There's two things in this world that drive a man to drink." Gawain smiled, cocking a sceptical brow at Tristan "Guilt and women, it's usually one or t'other…So, what have you done this time, Tristan?"

Tristan threw him a warning glare but said nothing. Gawain knew that look well but wasn't afraid to press his friend further, it both intrigued and amused him to see the usually stoical scout with his feathers ruffled.

"Tis a woman then, by the Gods!" he grinned, watching closely every subtle reactionary twitch on the face that to anyone else who knew it less, would appear merely blank and impassive. "So tell me…which is it Tristan? An eminent officer's daughter? Nay, let me guess…the bored wife of one of Arthur's rich diplomats?... God' s truth, you haven't taken up with old Lexus's daughter again have you?" He mocked with anxious eyes "He'll have your bollocks sliced, cooked and on a platter he if gets to hear of it."

Tristan laughed, despite himself. "Aye, I know! Me and half the bloody garrison! She has an insatiable appetite that one….as well you know!" then more solemnly he added, " No, tisn't her."

"So, who?" Gawain asked, feigning a most serious face, hoping to draw the usually clandestine Tristan out.

Tristan put down his ale, wiped his whiskers on his sleeve and sighed. Gawain waited, sensing Tristan was about to spill when Galahad precariously raised his head from the table.

"Ah shiiiit!" he groaned, "…gonna be sick…" with that he promptly leant toward Gawain and vomited, barely missing the knights boots.

"Fuckin' hell, Galahad! You whoreson…!" Gawain yelled, shoving him over in Tristan's direction. "can't someone teach this dumb pup to drink like a man?"

Tristan chuckled huskily as he caught Galahad's shoulders. "I'll take 'im back" Tristan said, standing up suddenly, grateful to Galahad for once, for presenting the opportunity to avoid questions he was loathe to answer, but at the same time, tempted to. "I need to get my head down, anyway."

"Aye, me too."Gawain agreed, disappointed not to have learnt who the tasty morsel was that had clearly unbalanced his friend. He'd find out soon enough, he supposed. "I'm on recon' at dawn."

Helping Tristan haul the intoxicated Galahad over his shoulder, they said their 'goodnights' and Gawain stayed a moment longer to finish his ale. Hanging upside down over tristan's shoulder, Galahad let out a long agonising groan.

"Puke down my breeches, boy and I'll skin your fuckin' arse." Tristan grumbled as he carried the young knight away.

**…...**

The next morning saw Aithne making her customary dawn visit to the tavern to find Gawain sat breaking his fast and it was a welcome sight. He looked up at her approach and greeted her with his usual hearty smile. He noticed immediately the unusual pallor her face wore and the eyes that looked his way that were a little swollen from lack of sleep but still, her round, pleasant face beamed at the sight of him.

"Now here's a sight to cheer a man's heart on a dark spring morn'! He called to her, grinning from beneath his long, flaxen lion's mane.

"Get away with ye, Gawain…I know full well I look a fright" Aithne chided, with a smile as she placed her tray of fresh baked bread on the counter.

They had become good friends over the months of dawn tavern meetings. Aithne had always felt pleasantly at ease with the knight, despite all his teasing. It was just his nature; good humoured and abundantly friendly as he was and Aithne had always taken it with the affable heart in which is was intended. She liked Gawain enormously, as she did Dagonet, also. How could any woman not?

Gawain the loud and cheery lion and Dagonet the quiet, deep-spoken giant - They came in fearsome shells but with one thing in common. They each had a kindness of spirit and a genuine affection for the gentler sex, which made it impossible for any woman to resist the warmth from their humour and attention. Unlike the tense, silent mornings when Tristan was on dawn patrol, the arrival of Aithne and her fresh baked bread was always a far different affair on the mornings of Gawain or Dagonet's duty.

"Mornin' Vanora" said Aithne, fighting a weary yawn.

"Good mornin' Sweet 'eart." Vanora said as she took the tray "By 'eck, lass! You look as rough as a badger's backside, wot you bin up to?"

Before Aithne could answer, a large arm curled around her shoulders and Gawain hugged her to his chest protectively.

"You alright, hen?" he smiled down at Aithne with genuine concern. '_Actually no, I'm not' _she thought. remembering the painfully sleepless night she had spent trying to rid her thoughts of a certain knight. Aithne blushed at his show of concern, improving her pallor no end and smiled back.

"Aye, I'm well Gawain, just a little tired is all"

"Got herself a man I bet," Vanora teased saucily "I know that look anywhere"

"Bors wears it permanently," Gawain quipped in Aithne's ear, making her laugh and giving her another friendly squeeze.

"Well, well… here's someone else lookin' all the worse for a restless night!" Vanora gave Gawain a sly wink "Watcha doin' up so early, Tristan? Tisn't your shift….you 'ave trouble sleepin' an' all?"

Stunned at the mention of his name, Aithne stopped laughing and lowered her head, wincing inwardly at the sudden anxiety rearing its ugly head. Gawain, sensing the tension, took his arm from Aithne's shoulders and looked around at Tristan stood just behind them.

A strange combine of jealousy with the simple pleasure of being near her again, twisted painfully inside of Tristan. Jealous of Gawain for holding her close, when he had lain awake all night wanting to do just that. Jealous to witness the ease of a friendship between them he had, until that morning, no idea existed.

He had done it again hadn't he? He had come to the tavern at this hour, knowing she would be here - and to do what? To _say_ what, exactly?

So, just to fuel to his simmering resentment nicely, he now felt awkward and '_admit it'_ damned foolish as well…and it hurt. Why did this slip of a village girl unbalance him so?... **_Him_**!

Not a shadow of these feelings cast upon his expressionless face as he stepped up to the counter next to Aithne.

Aithne's heart began its usual gallop at his being so close; strange how she'd always believed its inexorable pounding at the sight of him had been a cry to flee. She realised in that moment, as her heart called out to him, how wrong she had been.

She swallowed painfully, desperate for air and looked up to him, bravely. His eyes met hers and they stared at each other, unspeaking for quite sometime.

Gawain and Vanora looked on bewildered but remained silent, both sensing this was something that should not be interrupted.

"Aithne" Tristan murmured in greeting, eventually.

"Sir," she returned in a fractured whisper.

The silence stretched on until an unusually quiet Vanora raised a conspiring brow at Gawain, who was doing his damnedest to control a threatening grin. She picked up the tray of loaves and disappeared into the kitchens.

Seeing this as his cue to leave the two alone, Gawain turned to pick up his weapon and satchel but a voice called out Aithne's name just as Gawain was about to make his tactful exit and he stopped. It was her father.

"Aithne, can y' come here, sweeting." He called out as he walked towards them.

Aithne's heart sank with a dull, heavy thump. She hesitated, then bid a quiet and reluctant goodbye to both Tristan and Gawain. Tristan turned away, closing his eyes momentarily.

His mouth, a grim straight line, did not return the farewell.

**…...**

"Da, how could you?" Aithne cried, hardly believing what she was hearing.

"It's just a short trip to Arbeia, there's nowt wrong with that? He was good enough to ask for me say-so and I gave it" the old man insisted.

"There's much too much graft to be done, I've not the time for taking trips an' gallivanting 'round sea docks and markets." Aithne reasoned, making a show of grabbing her small bread cart to prove her point.

"Tosh!...I'll see this lot gets t'Keep kitchens." He argued, pushing her gently away from the cart "You get yersel' off, lord knows you've earned a days rest, lass."

"I don't wanna go" Aithne insisted stubbornly.

"But y'always said how much you longed to see Arbeia again!"

"I don't wanna go with _him_"

"By 'eck y' can be a thankless wretch at times, lass!" Her father shook his head in disbelief "Get off that throne you've sat y'arse on and give the lad a chance"

"Well that's just charmin' that is!" Aithne gasped, both insulted and angry "Well, I sharn't go, throne or not and there's an end to it!"

Her father shot her a rarely invoked angry glare. "Would you 'ave me….your own Da…look a liar and a fool?" he growled in a steadily rising voice "You shall go! Cos, I've given me word"

"You've no right t'be givin' your word, Da! I'm long past the age for you to be bartering me off to the highest bidder - I can choose my own companion, I'm a grown woman and a widow to boot"

"Aye, and he's been dead long enough, Aithne!"

"Da!" Aithne cried, tears stinging her eyes.

"Well, d'ya want t'spend the rest of y'god-given days a lonely, dried up old crone? Y' should be thankful Guyon's takin' notice…..lord knows you've had no other offers."

The hurt, betrayed eyes that stared back at him, misty with disbelief, nearly broke his heart.

"Oh lass, I didnay mean that, I didnay.." he implored suddenly, ashamed that he had spoken so "I was just tryin' to make y'see reason… I just want t'best for ye, is all...an I gave 'im me word, Aithne!" he reached out to grab her hands but Aithne pulled them from his reach. Before she could find the words to answer her father, a small ox-driven cart ambled it's way from behind the tavern and rolled to a stop beside them.

Aithne took a deep breath and stared at her father, disappointment and sorrow painted upon her face. How could she refuse to go now without shaming her father? She could almost hate him for putting her in such an impossible position. Defeated, she turned away without farewell and walked to the waiting cart. Guyon had stepped down and moved forward to offer Aithne a hand to help her into the seat next to his. She took it without complaint and climbed up. Once settled comfortably by her side, Guyon gave Aithne a crooked smile - as devastating and charming as ever whilst his pale blue eyes shone with clandestine triumph. Aithne gave a faint, polite smile in return and snuggled down in her mantle as Guyon called farewell to her father and urged the oxen on.

Still stood at the tavern counter, Tristan had watched the whole performance. He stared after the cart as it trundled away. His knitted brow, dark and pensive as he ran the tip of his tongue slowly across his lower lip.


	9. Chapter 9 'So Long at the Fair'

**As always, thank you all for reading, reviewing or for doing both! :)**

**This is actually the first instalment of what became an extremely long chapter, so I cut it in half - mainly for the sake of my own sanity, because editing & re-writing it was becoming a major migraine - so it is now in two, more manageable halves. The second half should be up in a few days or so when I am happy with it. It is written, it just needs fleshing out a bit. :)**

**A special thanks to my very dear friend 'Incognito', who shares my love of a certain scruffy scout, a dark, brooding sheriff's henchman and the use of copious amounts of comma's *g* and who so graciously spared her time to look over my scribbles, correct my mistakes and point me in the right direction. *love you***

**Chapter 9 - '…So Long at The Fair'**

Aithne stood alone on the edge of the windswept wharf, her mantle clasped tightly to her breast, keeping the harsh sea breeze that whipped her hair from its braids at bay. Despite the biting wind she was smiling, her eyes closed as she breathed the salty air, filling her lungs. Her senses soothed by the sound of the anchored ships, their tired timbers groaning gently as they rocked against the white crested waves lapping at their resting boughs.

It had been an age since she had last seen the sea and it filled her heart with joy to find it just as wonderful as her fond memories had promised. So much so, she had to confess she almost felt grateful that Guyon had hijacked her so artfully into accompanying him to the Arbeia docks, such different feelings from those of resentment that had been simmering away just an hour or two ago during the journey there. And oh, hadn't Guyon be well aware of that - with her sulky pout and obstinate stare fixed anywhere as long as not on him. She had been unyielding in her determination to speak to him only when necessity provoked it, leaving him with no doubt as to what she thought of the jaunt that he had manoeuvred her in to.

This had understandably vexed the prideful Guyon deeply. However, despite the slight to his dignity, he had strived to keep a smile on his face and a courteous tongue in his head during their awkward, one-sided conversation for well over half the journey. Then at last, he had felt a glimmer of hope as he began to coax an occasional glance in his direction and a civil word or two, with his calculated persistence finally rewarded when he had spied the first smile shape her lips.

Guyon, well pleased with his efforts, had given himself a well-earned pat on the back for surely, he had thought, that ungrateful little chit would try the fortitude of the Christ himself? She was nought short of a good thrashing that was all - he'd always thought her Da was far too soft on her, her flights and fancies too often indulged. Women should mind their tongue as they mind their broth and never forget who was master. Not to worry though, he would soon straighten the order of things…once she was his.

Back on the dockside, Aithne still stood happily basking in the cold oceanic breeze until disturbed by the sound of her name called, loud and bold from the far end of the dockside. She opened her eyes and turned to look over her shoulder.

Guyon was striding towards her, his long raven locks swaying with each confident step, revealing the familiar disparity of his dark, brooding brow against the enticing crooked smile on his attractive face. Aithne watched him, surprised by a sudden flutter of admiration. There was no denying it, she thought, he really was a fine looking man. Wide hipped, long legged, tall and broad chest-ed was he and a face predacious and sharp, giving him a fascinating, almost dangerous appeal. The looks from the busy fishwives and their daughters that followed in his wake as he strode towards her, reminded Aithne she was not the only one to think so.

He had an undeniable charm, of this there was no doubt and for a fleeting moment, Aithne wondered if maybe her father was not right after all. Would it really be such a bad lot to share her life with him? A sudden chill rippled down her spine and then disappeared as quickly as it had begun, taking with it any such notions of a future with Guyon. It would be so simple, she resigned to herself, if another were not clawing at her heart and that was certain.

_Tristan_ - she felt so far from shore in regards to that man, for she truly had no understanding of him.

Her own feelings towards the man, on the other hand, were becoming painfully clear to her. But what of Tristan? What game was he playing? Naive as she could be at times, even Aithne knew he must have come to the tavern seeking her that morning. He had no other reason to be there and it was to her that he had spoken - well, sort of – if merely her name used as a greeting can be construed as being 'spoken to', that is.

But why had he come - to simply amuse himself at her expense? The suggestion seemed so ludicrous when examined with rational thought, but had she any right to think his reasons could be anything more? The idea that, just maybe, she could mean something to that strangely unsettling knight flew straight to her breast, piercing it with an intoxicating rush of joyful hope, but it passed all too briefly, leaving in its wake only the dull, despondent thump of her more sensible, unbelieving heart. A gentle resigned sigh slipped through her lips as her contented smile faded away.

"I'm sorry it's taken so long, Aithne" Guyon apologised as he reached her side, mistaking her now grim face as an unspoken scolding for keeping her stood there alone.

"You're vexed with me, again?"

She smiled reluctantly and reassured him she was not. "I'm just a little cold is all"

"Well, tis high time I took you into the town," He looked down at her, his blue eyes sharp and bright and eager to see a glimpse of enthusiasm in his companion "would you take a mug and a bite to eat with me Aithne?"

Aithne readily accepted, anxious for a distraction from the low spirits that seemed threatening to settle upon her.

"Lets get y'outta this cold breeze, the stock's all sorted, we'll come back for it in a while when its bin loaded on the cart." Laying a lazy arm about her shoulders to shield her from the cold sea breeze, Guyon steered her off towards town. Aithne allowed herself be led away without complaint. She wasn't sure she was entirely comfortable with the arm about her, but, she considered, she _was_ rather famished and the eagerness for good food and drink far out-weighed any concern for his familiarity at that moment.

**…...**

After feasting on a much-welcomed mutton pastry and a cup of hot-spiced apple cider each, Aithne and Guyon spent the midday hours meandering around the market stalls and tents. The town was a hive of activity; crowds pushed and bumbled their way through the maze of silk merchants, weapon masters, food sellers, and wine bars who yelled out their pitch, beckoning all who would listen to come try their wares.

Leading Aithne by the hand, Guyon, just by his sheer height alone, carved an easy path for them both as they went from stall to stall, stopping occasionally to admire the craftsmanship and beauty of trinkets and baubles far removed from anything they could ever hope to procure.

"A token fer y'pretty lady, master?" a small girl called out, thrusting a basket full of finely carved hairpins and strips of coloured ribbons towards him. Guyon brushed her gently aside, laughing but the little girl persisted "Please master, wot 'bout a ribbon fer 'er pretty hair."

Guyon stopped and changing his mind, he picked up a length of nettle green. He turned to Aithne and smiled coyly at her from behind his black mane.

"Nay, Guyon...I couldna accept that" Aithne insisted, realising his intent.

"Tis just a ribbon, Aithne" He teased, his voice lazy and deep "doesna mean we're hand-fasted y'know."

"But…"

Dismissing Aithne's protests, he flipped the child a coin and turned to face her.

"Y'don't have to wear it, if y'don't want…." He shrugged as he handed Aithne the finely woven knick-knack "I'll not take offence…but t'would be an awful shame, the colour suits you well"

He smiled boyishly, his eyes sparkling with such innocuous persuasion that Aithne could do nothing other than accept the gift. She reached over her shoulder and quickly knotted it around her thick tawny plait, puzzled by a most peculiar sense of disloyalty as she did so. _What's wrong with you, woman? Tis only a ribbon for heaven's sake _she scolded herself, as Guyon took up her hand and led her through the crowds once again.

**…...**

All too soon, the time approached to be making a start back to the Badon Hill fort. It was mid afternoon and if they were to make it back to the gates before the twilight curfew, then Guyon knew they should be making tracks. Oxen weren't, after all, the most speedy beasts of burden. It had crossed his mind more than once, to tarry in Arbeia deliberately. They would miss curfew then and that would mean a night out together…alone.

However, as tempting as this prospect was, Guyon was shrewd enough to know that he would be pressing his luck. The day had gone well, one wrong foot now, would spoil all he believed he had achieved in regards to winning over Aithne and he had strived too bloody hard trying to please that damn woman to chance that. He wanted reward for this in time, which he fully expected Aithne to bestow. Besides, old man Smithy expected him back _today_ and who needed that cantankerous old bastard spitting and cursing when they didn't make it home on time?

And so Guyon and Aithne walked back to the docks where the old ox stood waiting patiently to haul them and the now heavily laden cart back home. To both, it seemed hard to believe now that their day together had begun in such abhorrent humour. Guyon had appeared both respectful and considerate at all times and in turn, Aithne forgiving and appreciative. In truth, she had expected him to be bombarding her with objectionable advances the whole day through, but he had not. He had talked, listened, laughed and entertained her without so much as even an inappropriate glance from beneath that dark, handsome brow of his. She had enjoyed her day at the Arbeian docks; she had enjoyed her day with Guyon.

Guyon noted with satisfaction the faint look of disappointment that befell her eyes when the time came to leave. Although he suspected her disappointment was more likely due to the prospect of leaving Arbeia and not himself, he cared not… only that she _was _disappointed at all mattered, for it meant that she had enjoyed her day and she had shared her day with _him_. Next time maybe he wouldn't have to stretch to such devious means to secure her company, she would be glad to go with him...the rest would all fit into place after that, he was sure.

**…...**

They had chatted amiably for a while as the cart trundled along towards home, laughing and reminiscing over the pleasurable day they had both had and from time to time, whenever she believed herself unseen, Aithne would peruse the man next to her.

He was an enigma, this tall, quietly spoken man. He was attractive, no doubt of that and he had always treated her courteously, today more than any other in fact. But what was it about him that held her at a distance? It wasn't just that she thought he desired her paltry dowry more than he desired her – after all, her father was right – even poor folk like they were looked for advantages in wedlock, even the smallest promise such as hers. It was something more, something she just couldn't quite see. Her eyes swept over him secretly once more, as if the answer lay somewhere upon him, trailing slowly up the lengths of his long, muscular legs to the strong hands that held the rein easily between slender fingers…

"Look, we're almost home..." Guyon said, pointing ahead to the towering gatehouse, which loomed up from the old emperor's wall far in the distance before them.

**…...**

Tristan stood motionless; his weight leaning upon both hands placed either side of the stone battlements on top of the high fortress wall, his expression grave and silent as he watched the lonely road that stretched out east, towards Arbeia. He'd been nursing a peevish, bad temper all day long and was none too pleased to find himself still within its grip, despite his concerted efforts to quench it.

He had spent the entire morning on the training yard seeking a distraction, dispatching wood and straw dummies with maddening effortlessness. But that proved no cure, so he had turned his attention to dispatching any King's soldier that was foolhardy enough to volunteer to spar with him instead. He quit the yard several sword parries and a few near-misses later, breath heavy and body sweat-soaked but still feeling no better for it.

After an hour spent in contemplative silence, cleaning and paring his weapons, followed by a deliberately orchestrated verbal scuffle with a poor, unsuspecting Galahad, he still couldn't keep thoughts of the baker's daughter and that whoreson of a smithy out of his head.

Lacking any military duties that day, all that was left to occupy his troubled mind was his stallion. The bad tempered old devil needed the exercise anyway and so he saddled him up and set off over the hills to wile away the rest of the afternoon. Of course, it was only coincidence that he had chosen to ride back and to across the hills to the East, with the Arbeian road in easy sight.

Dusk was fast approaching now and with it the baffling petulance that had lain decaying like slow poison, deep within the scout the whole day long, began to swell.

Up on the battlements, Tristan was consigning himself to the prospect of a night of abject wretchedness that was sure to haunt him, no matter how many flagons of ale he was apt to consume. He had no idea what ailed him and even less idea what he should do about it bar drowning it in an ale mug. However, it had struck him so abruptly and with such a ruthless clarity from the very moment Aithne had disappeared from his sight that morning, that there was only one thing he was sure of - he wanted her back. There would be no solace for him until then.

Still watching, still silent, the tension clear from the taut muscles along his jaw line, Tristan's hawk-eyes suddenly strained as a silhouette far away on the horizon crept in to view and he stared at it, unfalteringly, for what seemed an age. He almost withered with relief as the familiar sight of a bonny little figure with wild tawny hair fighting from its braid, came trundling towards the gatehouse atop a small ox-driven cart.


	10. Chapter 10 'Mine'

**Chapter 10 – 'Mine'**

The early evening breeze whispered eerily along the ramparts, cool and sharp. It nipped at the scout's nose and fluttered its way through his long shaggy locks, whipping his braids about his face with irritable scorn as if mocking his clandestine surveillance. Tristan felt the ignominy keenly, that he of all people should be skulking about in the shadows, eavesdropping upon conversation that in all fairness he had no right to be prying on.

Did he have no self-respect?

Evidently not, as the shame of it did not deter him as he continued to watch, looking down upon the courtyard, unseen from within the shadowy gloom of the battlements on which he stood. His face wore his usual inert expression, but his eyes were as incisive as ever as they flickered here and there, watching every movement, every gesture, every telling look that passed between Aithne and her companion as together they unloaded the cart that had brought them home.

Nothing escaped his tense scrutiny. Not the sight of Guyon's hands lingering on Aithne's waist after he swung her down from the cart, not the sound of their easy laughter drifting up towards him on the evening breeze. It pricked at his male pride and the scout felt it keenly. Jealousy, envy, resentment, call it what you will but imagining that whoreson soot-shoveller playing his hand and winning hers in return incensed him.

Was it possible she was falling under the spell of those superficial, youthful good looks? _Damn the bastard! _What chance did he, older, battle worn man that he was, have left...? Was he losing a woman he did not even possess to begin with?

Now, he wanted to walk away.

Shielding his pride, he snarled inwardly '_to the_ _devil with her'_, what did he care anyway? She was just a woman. Badon fort was swarming with them, all far more willing, practised and able than she, he would wager. A bear amongst honey pots, was he not? Enough for any man craving the taste of womanly nectar. Actually, he considered, 'honey pots' was perhaps a little overly embellishing for a lot of the rag tailed females that hung around the barracks. Still, who was he to complain? One wench was as good as any other, when their skirts were over their heads, so why should _her_ favour be of any consequence to him…?

Oh, whom was he trying to fool? Empty sentiments, every one of them_ 'and you know it'._

Tristan groaned inwardly, he was tired of all this aberrant conflict within himself. He had endured a sickening temper during those painfully long hours that had crawled by since Aithne had left. Endured it with the usual outward facade of stoical control with which he endured most everything.

But inside there had simmered turmoil, the like of which Tristan hadn't felt since…well …_since when_? He could barely recall. Since he was a rake of a lad? Most likely; gangly, awkward youth that he once was. Like most boys on the threshold of manhood, rampant with the first flushes of youthful lust, chasing skirts and imagining himself in love with any wench that would spare him an enticing smile or wanton glimpse of her copious cleavage. Then boiling with unbridled, pubescent rage when spurned for those more experienced, more attractive and most typically, possessing more coin than he. He had learnt his lessons swiftly in those early years, taken a pasting or two that he'd never forget from those older, bigger and stronger than he.

_Women_ – shallow, greedy, fallacious creatures they were. Yes, he _had_ learnt quickly. For years now, they had all meant little more to him than the obliging means to a desired end. But not this woman, not this seemly ordinary, insignificant woman he was so intensely aware of, even from this distance. It was as if her scent was somehow seeking him out and beguiling his senses, drawing him to her.

He smiled to himself, realising that she had been bewitching him from the very moment she had looked up at him, nervously mopping wine from his table with the hems of her own skirt.

Perhaps he had always been aware of her. Week after week, month after month, every dawn patrol the tantalising aroma of warm cinnamon drifted into the tavern, followed by the sound of soft footsteps, echoing in its wake. She had always been there, just at the edge of his peripheral consciousness, whispering to him; he had just never listened until now.

_Ordinary, insignificant was she_? Hardly. Not to him. Not anymore.

Who knew why fate had chosen to touch him with need for this woman, he certainly did not. But one thing he did know, this was not mere lust. This was something much, much more. The simple pleasure it was for him just to look upon her face, to hear her voice, to feel her close by - is that not why he sought her out as he did, why he did feel the sting of distance between them so intensely this day? He swore, that just to know she was near him was enough…well perhaps, not _just_ that …

This was something so new, so extraordinary for the man that Tristan was.

He wanted her - for himself and no one else. However, he would have to give to this woman, if he was to keep her. For she had a heart to tend and a soul to soothe, he understood that. But was he ready to give…was he even capable of it?

Tristan, filled with a sudden clarity of heart stepped out of the shadows. He leant forward, his weight upon palms pressed against the parapet stone and stared down at Aithne, willing her to turn her head, look up and see him there. It was incomprehensible to him at that moment that she did not feel the same as he. That she wasn't every bit as aware of him as he was of her.

"_Damn you woman…see me_!" he yelled silently, not conscious that he held the breath in his lungs as he glared down at her.

A little hand rose slowly as if to smooth the fine hairs that tingled upon the back of her neck. A quizzical glance over her shoulder, a pause, looking behind but not up at the ramparts. A puzzled frown as she turned her back once more.

It was enough for Tristan. A hint of a smile crossed his whiskered lips as he watched her walk away towards the tavern. She _was_ his. Now it was time to go get her.

...

"Enjoying yourself?" Guyon asked, his deep voice shouting over the merry din made by a troupe of musicians who sang and played as all else drank, danced and sang along with them. Aithne looked up and smiled, nodding with enthusiasm and then quickly turned her attention back to the amusing shenanigans around her.

The place was a-buzz, heaving with travelling tradesman, tinkers, soldiers and locals. People from far and wide always passed through Badon, but none so much as when the merchant ships had docked at Arbeia. There was always a raucous shindig to be had on those days. It was partly this that had persuaded Aithne to accept Guyon's invitation to take a draft with him, for she dearly liked to hear the players' merry tunes and, though she rarely danced herself, she loved to watch others whirling one another about in wild abandonment. But if she were truly honest, it was the hope that she would find _him_ here that really swayed her to come.

There were a few familiar faces amongst the revellers - villagers, soldiers, the occasional knight she passed the time of day with, that was all. But not the knight she wanted to see. Not Tristan.

Her father who she'd greeted when she had arrived, was somewhere over the way, out of sight. He preferred a quieter tavern to drink in, so had refused to join his daughter and Guyon amidst the carousing. That nonsense was for the young'uns. He was happy, settled in a corner with a few other like-minded companions, sharing a well-filled pitcher and a set of dice.

For some time, it was as if she had been sat upon blades, so fidgety and anxious was she. The more she had tried to hide it, the worse she had become. As her eyes searched around her, she would imagine the crowds parting and there he would be, striding towards her with that arrogant gait that was so typical of him - _'Ridiculous woman!' _she had chided silently. But no matter how many times she had swept her anxious eyes over and around the crowd, he was not to be seen. Disheartened and tired of the disappointment his absence was causing, she had eventually given in. He was not there, as simple as that. Besides, it was Guyon she was sat next to, was it not?

So when Aithne had stopped looking for him, she found to her surprise, that she had actually begun to enjoy herself instead. She allowed the taste of honey mead to warm her senses and the rhythmic pound of dancing feet and drums, to then carry them away.

Whoops and yells, laughter and screams rang out from the singing, dancing mass as the musicians played louder and faster. Aithne, wide eyed and exhilarated, laughed along, feet tapping away and body swaying with the musical pulse. Sat beside her on a long wooden bench, Guyon viewed her sidelong, the usual amused curl at the corner of his mouth. At this moment, she seemed happier and more at ease than he had ever known her before and he believed that finally the glacial fortress he had been chipping away at for so long was beginning to crack. Admittedly, he had filled her ale mug up a few times when her eyes were averted and yes, those eyes were a little brighter than usual and her cheeks had a deep rosy hue to them, but he'd had to get that fucking knight out of her head somehow, hadn't he?

She thought he hadn't noticed how her eyes searched the faces of all around them over and over, neck craning above heads whenever she thought he was looking elsewhere. How could he not notice, did she think him a fool? Nevertheless, the bastard hadn't appeared, at least not yet and it had been easy to distract her once he'd got a couple of draughts down her neck.

He had known all along, all it would take was a few hours alone with him to sway her thinking in his direction and he was confident it was going his way now. If she was lucky, he might even try kissing her later. He knew it was what she wanted. All those smiles she'd been giving him over her ale mug, the coy looks. She'd even touched his arm once or twice. He knew all the signs - women were so fucking transparent. She'd be in his bed this night if he played his dice carefully and then she'd be his. Ah, alcohol was such a wonderful thing! Thanks to it, Guyon had her slightly tipsy attention to himself, her smile was easy and her giggles infectious.

He could honestly say he was beginning to enjoy himself. If only that dumb whore Merylin would stop gawping over at him from across the way. What a sight she looked, jaw bruised, hair hanging limp and lifeless in untamed disarray. The woman had no self-respect. She had approached him at the ale barrel when he'd gone to fetch a pitcher, had the audacity to press him for coin! She couldn't work, she said as if it were his fault! _Stupid bitch…_she'd got a mouth hadn't she, he told her, his eyes flickering momentarily to his handiwork on her jaw. He hadn't liked the way she had been looking around him at Aithne, who sat watching the dancing with (thankfully) her back to the both of them. He hadn't missed Merylin's shrewd eyes either, narrowing as she studied her. With a growl he'd thrown a couple of coins her way. "_Now fuck off_." He had hissed as he walked away.

From his place by Aithne's side, Guyon flashed a warning glare over at Merylin, another of several over the last few minutes but this time she appeared to take note and moved away out of sight.

Finally! Now he could relax. Disregarding the woman quickly, he turned his full attention back to Aithne. He leaned down towards her, close to her ear, so as to make himself heard over the music.

"Would y'dance with me, Aithne?" he purred deeply, the heat of his breath enticing upon her cheek, just as he intended. Aithne looked up into the ice blue eyes smiling down at her and just for a second, she faltered. His mouth was a mere kiss away, so close she could feel the very same breath that had caressed her cheek, now tease her lips. She swallowed and instinctively wet her lips. Was it him or the mead that was making her feel so delightfully woozy?

Blushing shamefully all of a sudden, she turned away. "Oh… I don't think…"

"Come on..." Guyon grinned as he stood up and took her hand, "What harm could it do?"

"I...well I…" Aithne began to protest but no sooner had Guyon pulled her to her feet, did she then find herself pulled swiftly from his grasp and swirled round and round in the arms of a flaxen haired minstrel. She stared open mouthed at his grinning, painted face as he danced her through the crowds and out of sight of a furious Guyon, whose pursuit was foiled by the intervention of the minstrel's pretty cohort. The girl had jumped into Guyon's arms, steering him off in the opposite direction with well-disguised intent.

The minstrel flew in and out of the crowds pulling a breathless Aithne with him and then stopped as abruptly as he'd stolen her when they reached a doorway at the far corner of the tavern. Bewildered, Aithne just stared as the minstrel gave her a child-like grin, blew her a kiss and then promptly thrust her backwards through the open exit. Aithne shrieked as she flew backwards but instead of the pain of hard ground, she felt herself enfolded in the safety of two strong arms. No time to draw breath, she was lifted off her feet and carried out of the glare of the blazing braziers around the courtyard and into the shadows behind the tavern.

Pressed up against the cold stone wall, ensnared on either side by the arms of her captor, Aithne surrendered without a fight and looked up into the eyes that fixed her with an indecipherable stare.

"Hello," She whispered nervously, feeling a little foolish but having no other words to offer, so shocked was she. Had she just been kidnapped right from under the nose of Guyon? Had this man been there watching her every moment, jealous and desperate to steal her away from him? '_Oh yes, yes, please say it is so!'_ Her heart pounded with anticipation as Tristan continued to gaze at her.

"Hello," Tristan whispered back at last, not taking his eyes from hers for a moment. A long, knowing silence lingered between them once more until Tristan bent his head, achingly slowly towards hers. Her breath caught and her heart erupted in her breast.

'_God's_ _breeches, he's going to kiss me!'_

So close now she could smell him, all wilderness and male. Aithne swallowed, the heat crept up her neck and tingled deep down between her thighs in response. She closed her eyes, fuelled by instinct and expectation, tilting her chin up as her lips gently parted.

Tristan's eyes flickered to her waiting mouth, lips trembling ever so slightly and breath, honey sweet from mead, softly mingling with his own. He grinned with knowing delight, longing to kiss her but instead moved closer, until his whiskered face tickled against her cheek. _Not yet, not here, not in this stinking alleyway._

"Go home, Aithne" he breathed gently into her ear.

She opened her eyes, confused, disappointment clouding her face.

"What did you say..? But…I…" she stammered, embarrassed suddenly, turning her face from his.

"Shhhh…" he said gently, laying a finger on her lips. "Tis time to go home, Aithne. You reek of ale, woman… if that bastard slips any more into your mug when your head is turned, you'll be legless."

"_What_? He hasn't been..._has he_...?" she exclaimed, somewhat confounded and then laced with anger, "I am not drunk! How dare you accuse me of such a state!"

"I didna say you were drunk," he reasoned, still gentle in tone. The mood was taking a turn for the worse between them, thanks to him and he didn't like it. "I said you _would be_ if you stay here with him any longer."

"What are y'tryin' to say?" Insulted, Aithne began to fume. With her brief flush of desire now well and truly dampened, she wanted to be gone. She started to wriggle, trying to push her way out under Tristan's arms but he grabbed her shoulders and pulled her back against the wall.

"What y' doing?" she snapped "Leave go of me!"

Ignoring her demands, Tristan replied more calmly than he felt, "You are not so naive, surely Aithne? For what ends d'ya think a man would ply a woman he can't have, with drink?"

"Tis a disgusting thing to say!"

"Tis a truth, Aithne!"

"By whose measure? _Yours_ I suppose!" She grabbed at the hands that held her but they did not let go.

"_I _do not need to soak a woman in wine to get her on her back!" It was an instinctive, thoughtless quip and Tristan winced inwardly the moment it left his lips. It was not the most tactful snap to aim at the woman he would very much like to get in that position, it had to be said.

Aithne gasped; offended at the suggestion that Guyon was playing any such depraved game with her, but hurt even more so at what she regarded as Tristan, blatantly flaunting his own conquests in her face.

Conceited, nasty creature!

"No, you just pay for it with coin," she lashed back. "Now, _let me go_!"

"And I suppose he pays for _you_ with cheap, shoddy ribbons!" he snarled back spitefully, grabbing her long thick braid up in his fist and waving the offending green knick-knack under her nose.

"Oh!" she cried mortified, snatching back her hair and shoving him away.

Instantly ashamed of his juvenile retort, he let her go not wishing to inflame her contempt anymore than he already had.

_Why the bloody hell hadn't he just kissed her, he_ thought as she turned on her heel. Tact never had been a strong point of his, obviously, and even less so apologies. Thus, these were personal traits he had always found decidedly easier to ignore, so now what should he do? Just let her go?

"Aithne!" he called after her, just as a girl stepped through the tavern doorway, almost colliding with Aithne as she walked by. He heard Aithne mumble a curt apology and then hurry on, thankfully not back into the tavern to _him _but in the direction of her home. He had meant to follow after her but the expression on the other woman's face stopped him. She was staring after Aithne, frowning and pensive, until she disappeared across the courtyard and out of view. Then she turned around slowly to re-enter the tavern, unintentionally catching Tristan's eye as she did so.

He stared at her, his eyes flickering to a bruised, swollen jaw then back up to her now troubled gaze. Instinct told him, he needed a word or two with this wench. She sensed his intention it seemed, and she quickly turned away to make her escape but Tristan was too fast, catching her wrist before she could retreat inside. Pulling her away from the doorway, he held her cursing and struggling.

"What interest is she to you...?Tell me!" he hissed.

"Wot y'talkin' about?…Let go, you bastard! Yer hurtin' me!" she hissed back trying with all her strength to twist out of his grasp but he held her fast.

"_Aithne…_ the woman who just spoke to you…I saw the way you were lookin' at her!"

Merylin gave a sardonic snort and sneered, more to herself that to Tristan, "So it _is_ her."

Tristan tightened his grip on her wrist and she yelped."Satan's cock, that hurts!" he gripped tighter "Alright, alright!... tis nowt , but if y'must hear it, I'll tell ya!" she yielded and Tristan relaxed his hold. "She yer woman is she, this _Aithne_?"

Tristan hesitated and then answered with a tenacious snap, "will be!"

Merylin rolled her eyes suddenly, and shot him a weary look that seemed to say 'now it all makes sense.'

"What do you know of her?" he demanded once again.

"Nuffin' really, tis just that I've heard her spoke of so many times…wasn't quite sure who she was till now."

"_Who_ speaks of her?"

"Now you know it ain't polite for a girl to go bandying 'bout the names of 'er callers…" she cooed, all false modesty and coyness suddenly, flirting half-heartedly in vain hope that he would ask no more of her, but knowing it not likely at all.

"I said .._who_?" He growled unimpressed, clasping her wrist once again.

"Alright, alright!" Merylin spat back, squirming in his grasp. "The blacksmith's lackey...!Guyon...!You 'appy now?"

To her relief, Tristan relaxed and let go of her, a look of unconcern swiftly improving the frightening scowl he had been fixing her with. To_ his _relief, the wench had confirmed only that which he already knew and he didn't see any reason to ask more. He looked again to her swollen jaw and stared for a moment, regretting now being so rough with the girl. Up close it was easy to see how young she was, could not have been more than sixteen but already bearing the scars of her unfortunate choice of life. Her hair was the colour of Aithne's he realised, and fell about her shoulders in a manic disarray of waves and curls, much how he imagined Aithne's would when she finally freed it from its bounds for him…it wasn't hard to see why Guyon used this girl.

Merylin flinched when he reached out towards her; wary of the sudden change in his mood, but it was a gentle hand that traced the length of the wound, and a low, almost compassionate voice that spoke to her.

"Tis an ugly world sometimes…."he contemplated quietly, "you should find another path to tread, girl."

With that, he turned to leave and against everything thing she knew about herself - hard, tainted mortal of the world that she already was - Merylin felt a bubble of emotion rise in her throat, fuelled by that small flicker of kindness. For sure, it was a gift rarely bestowed on her by anyone.

"Knight!" she called after him and he stopped, throwing her a quizzical look over his shoulder.

"Have a care…he wants her." Tristan noted the telltale hand that moved absently to the bruised and swollen face as she spoke of Guyon. "If you love her, keep her safe…"

Tristan frowned, wanting more. Merylin wavered and then added quietly,

"….he says things sometimes…does things…unnatural things…"

She would say no more, but from the look on Tristan's face as he strode passed her and into the tavern, she knew she did not have to.

...

Still stood on the edge of the throng of rowdy revellers, Guyon frowned as his eyes swept fruitlessly over the heaving crowd and yet again, he could not see Aithne anywhere amongst them. That woman was beginning to piss him off, that was for sure.

Last he saw her, she was being swung wildly around by some scrawny little minstrel and with so many people and so wild the singing and dancing, he'd quickly lost sight of her. Not that it had concerned him any to begin with, but now…

_Where was the little…?_

The shock of the first blow sent all sense and reason flying with the blood that exploded from his shattered nose. The second, a fierce, perfectly aimed boot between his legs, brought him down to his knees, gasping but unable to cry out as the pain seared through his loins. Oblivious to anything around him but the indescribable torture that wracked his body, Guyon's only possible response was to clutch desperately at his agonized groin and weep noiselessly.

Tears burnt trails down his bloodied face as he began to retch from the agony. With his head reeling in confusion and shocking disbelief, he gradually became aware of a hand gripped at his throat. He felt himself dragged up and forward, but could see nothing through the darkness of pain.

"Hear this," a dark, accented voice hissed close to his ear, "_she is mine!_"

A sickening reality began to dawn and Guyon slowly, painfully forced his swelling eyes open and glimpsed the knight at his throat. Tristan tightened his grip on his neck and glared at him, waiting for a flicker of acknowledgement.

Guyon wretched once more, blood-swamped spittle trickling down his chin. Then he began to chuckle - a deep, husky, unnatural sound.

"_Bastard…"_ he groaned and then spat in Tristan's face.

The next blow sent him plummeting into oblivion.


	11. Chapter 11 'Thirst'

**Thank you to everyone for reading/and or reviewing. As always it is much appreciated. Much love to by BETA who remains 'incognito' :) - you are wonderful my dear. Again this chapter just kept getting longer and longer and so I had to cut it in two - but that means hopefully, Chapter 12 will be completed and up much sooner. :)**

**CHAPTER 11 - 'Thirst'**

"Enough!" Gawain roared, grasping Tristan's shirt in his fists and slamming him hard against the tavern bar. "For fuck's sake, the man's had enough!"

Breath seething through clenched teeth, Tristan wrestled against the grip at his chest, spitting and cursing as he tried to free himself and finish the job. Just as determined, Gawain held fast, anxious for his friend's sense to return from this bizarre exhibition of rage, before Tristan ended up killing the man who lay sprawled out in his own blood.

He had no idea what Guyon had done to provoke Tristan but whatever the crime, Gawain wasn't going to argue about it. Tristan clearly had a reason and that was good enough for him. However, neither would he stand by and allow his friend to beat a man half to death in front of a tavern full of witnesses. For all who looked on, it must appear an unprovoked and iniquitous attack and Gawain was more than aware there could be repercussions, even for a King's knight.

_Especially_ for a King's knight!

Insubordination on this level - that of one of his best cavalry warriors beating a smithy's lackey half to death - would not sit well on Arthur's shoulders.

Tristan and Gawain scuffled once more but the larger knight's strength finally won out and Tristan ceased his struggle. Gawain held on for a few moments longer, relaxing his grip only when he was sure that he recognised the look of resigned restraint in Tristan's eyes.

Tristan growled resentfully, glaring at Gawain before shoving him off. He stood for a moment raking agitated fingers through his long, straggly locks as he threw a look of disgust over his handy work on the tavern floor. Then abruptly he turned and strode away, pushing a path through the uneasy, gawping crowd without a word and marched off across the courtyard in the direction of the bakery.

**...**

No matter how many times she mulled the scene over in her mind, Aithne just could not make sense of what had happened in that alley behind the tavern this evening. What manner of man was that knight and what the devil was it he wanted from her anyhow? Apparently, not what she had thought _or hoped_, as she had stood pinned to the wall, breathless and mesmerized by the wild beauty that held her there.

Just for those few moments, she had been his captive, helpless and as she well knew, shamefully willing. He practically abducted her from beneath Guyon's nose after all and then she, almost melting with the anticipation of his kiss that she was so certain he was about to bestow, found herself not seduced, but ordered off home and left feeling like a scolded child!

A desolate sigh whispered through Aithne's lips, she was tired, confused and a faint throb was gathering at her temples. She laid her head on her folded arms which rested upon the table at which she sat and closed her eyes, comforted by the sombre, peaceful air that filled the small room.

A vague notion that she could no longer hear the distant hum of music and song from the tavern, passed through her weary thoughts and it suddenly occurred to her that she would have some explaining to do to Guyon on the morrow. What on earth was she going to say to him, leaving him high an dry that way? She groaned inwardly. He would be furious with her no doubt, and she could hardly blame him for that. _Oh no, _she thought, he would probably come knocking at the door any moment seeking her out. She could not face that right now, she needed a story to tell him, for the ridiculous truth would never do and she had neither the mind nor inclination to think of that now.

With a resounding crack, the wooden bakery door suddenly crashed open, sending a shimmering of dust cascading wildly down from straw-thatched roof. Aithne shrieked loudly and jumped to her feet, upsetting her seat in her haste.

"Gods above!" she exclaimed, staggering back and stumbling over her upturned stool. "What in heaven's name...?"

In the doorway, stood glowering across at her was Tristan, his eyes flashing with a dangerous, impenetrable glare which never left her as he stalked in, slamming the door shut with a short, sharp backward kick of his boot. Another flurry of debris rained down and settled on the stunned silence that fell upon the room.

Aithne, dumbfounded and shaken, opened her mouth to speak but the words just would not form. She had expected Guyon to be standing there, not Tristan and it was taking her head more than a moment to catch up and make sense of what she was seeing.

There was blood spattered upon his shirt and smeared about his face and her first rational thought was that of fear - amazingly not fear for herself given the rather fierce way in which he chose to call upon her - but for him. Her eyes raked over him anxiously, searching for a cut, a wound, anything to explain the state in which he now stood before her.

"Oh, Tristan! _What has happened to you_?" she cried hoarsely. She took a step to rush to his side and then stopped, held back by a sudden wave of unsettling doubt.

His face was as it often was, familiar in its expressionless poise. But oh! Those eyes...sparkling beneath the shroud of tousled locks, she swore a tempest brewed there the like of which would eat her alive!

Instinctively Tristan swept a sleeve across his blood-tainted face but did not reply. It was strain enough trying to sate the precarious rage, which bubbled beneath his solemn countenance, without attempting to speak.

Tristan knew the moment he saw her that he should never have come here. He had no right to be terrifying this tender-hearted woman with his intemperate moods and selfish, animalistic desires. For his mood was a dangerous one, riled up and not yet quenched.

He'd wanted to kill him… _Christ, how he'd wanted to kill him_!...Would have done too, if Gawain had not held him off and denied him the sweet satisfaction of beating the life out of that worthless piece of shit. It sat heavy on his shoulders, like the stench of failure in battle almost and it tore at Tristan to think of it so. He felt parched with a thirst ill satisfied. A thirst to hurt, to kill, to fuck…_anything_ that would slake his blood-wet appetite that had been provoked so intensely and it was to Aithne's door that it had brought him.

_Why..._because he wanted her? Because he believed _she_ wanted _him? _Did he truly think to come here and vent his violent lust on this woman stood so precarious before him? This mild and temperate woman whom he had not even yet kissed?

_What the fucking hell had he been thinking_? He hadn't been _thinking_ had he? He just headed straight where his instinct led him. To the place where he wanted most of all to find the salve that would ease this wretched frustration eating him alive right now. To the woman he wanted, the woman he needed.

Unendurably fractious, ravenous with need for gratification, Tristan shuddered inwardly as he breathed; trying so hard to fight the animal-like desire which urged him to take Aithne where she stood. He closed his eyes for a moment, imagining himself buried deep between her thighs, she crying out, nails raking his naked flesh as he filled her.

He looked back at Aithne and the licentious thoughts swiftly flew away. She looked like a lost and frightened lamb waiting for the wolf to gobble her up. '_What is it she sees here before her' _Tristan thought, his anger suddenly snapping at Aithne's heels_ 'a monster?' _

Damn the woman – why must she stand there looking so bloody troubled and confused? Why can't she sense his need, share it? Why doesn't she just seize him, kiss him, devour him…love him?

But no, there she was wide eyed and silent, without it seemed, any intention of coming to him or indeed any flicker of reciprocated desire.

What were they doing stood here in this agonising limbo? But short of just taking the woman and hoping for the best, he had no idea what to say or do. But he had to try at least, didn't he?

"Come here" he demanded suddenly, his voice rusty and low as he studied every subtle reaction on her face and body. Maybe if he coaxed just a little, tried hard to reign in the fervour with which he wished to take her, she would respond, yield willingly – she was nervous that was all and who could blame her?

But she did not respond. She just stood there staring at him, confused and clearly unnerved.

So he made a move towards her.

Tristan was under no illusion that Aithne could be feigning her obvious anxiety, but even so, the sight of her recoiling at his approach still cut him deep. As was the way with Tristan, a fresh welt of anger swelled to smother the hurt, causing him to lose his restraint for just a moment. However, it was a moment too long and before he could stop himself, he lurched forward, grabbed her face in his hands and kissed her hard on the mouth.

He willed her to understand. To respond. To return his kiss with the same desperate passion he so badly needed to drown them both in. His fingers bruised her face, his lips smothered her, stealing the air from her lungs. Aithne, helpless in his arms, closed her eyes and felt her spirit begin to soar. It was terrifying and wonderful. She could hear her heart pounding wildly in her ears, felt her legs tremble as Tristan held her fast. Harder he kissed her, deeper, longer, his whiskers rough against her skin, his tongue forcing its way into her mouth, thrusting and searching. _Oh, God what is he doing to me…I cant breathe…I can't…" _

Suddenly, desperate with the need for air, desire vanished as instinct took over and in an effort to free herself, Aithne began to grab at the hands holding her face and push hard at his chest. Angry and misunderstanding her sudden struggle as rejection, Tristan simply tightened his embrace, refusing to give up the hope that he could make her want him as he wanted her.

He heard a cry wailing from her throat, the sound stifled by his mouth hot and desperate upon hers. And to his disgrace; it excited him.

"Don't fight me, damn it!" He snarled through the kiss, one hand letting go of her face and reaching down, grabbing her rump and pulling her hard against him. He was getting nowhere and he knew it, but he couldn't give up yet, he had to try… _Shit, he was throbbing like a bitch!_

To her relief, Aithne could now turn her head and breathe freely again but a new fear took over, for she knew now she had no control over what was happening between them.

"Let me go!" she cried as Tristan hastily curled his fingers around her thick, chestnut braid and pulled back her head to face him, silencing her with his hungry mouth once again.

_Just one more kiss and I'll let her go, I swear it. Just one more…_

Aithne shoved and twisted in his arms with all her strength, drawing a delighted growl rumbling from deep within his throat as the flesh of her thighs writhed against him. _Oh yes… yes!_ Tristan began to tremble involuntarily - _Fuck!_ She was going to make him come in his breeches! He had to stop this and now.

'_He's not going to stop!'_ Aithne cried soundlessly. _'Oh god, he's going to...'_

Just as Tristan began lifting his mouth from hers Aithne seized his bottom lip between her teeth and bit down hard.

"Fuck!" Tristan yelled suddenly, letting her go. "You little vixen!" Stunned, he wiped at the blood that welled on his lip with his knuckles, still cursing under his breath.

Not wasting a moment, Aithne turned and grabbed her iron ladle from the pot hanging in the unlit fireplace and held it out threateningly before her, remnants of the morning's porridge flying off it and landing upon the floor with an indignant splat.

Another time, Tristan would have laughed to see her so, but not now. Anger, revulsion, disbelief stared back at him and for the first time in his life, he felt a stirring of shame and the recognition of it sickened him.

What was this woman doing to him?

"Get out of my house….d'ya hear!" She snarled, thrashing the ladle wildly before her and looking with all intent and purpose that she was about to beat him to a pulp with it or at least, give it a damn good try. "GET OUT, I said!...You are disgusting! An animal and I'll not have y'near me! You despicable pig... _I hate you!_"

The hurt he felt at that moment shook him in his boots and his ardour rapidly extinguished with it. No sword thrust deep into the groin could have injured him as much as those last three words just spat at him. He wavered a moment, unable to retort, despising himself for his own weakness.

Brought down by a woman's scorn… _him_!

Instinctively he wielded his hurt into anger, casting aside any idea that he should be on his knees to this woman, begging her to forgive his loathsome behaviour towards her.

"_An animal am I_..?" He bit back at last, desperate to wound her as she had undeniably wounded him - a warrior's instinct and one he would have done well to forget at this moment.

"Aye…that is as maybe," he quipped with an arrogant shrug, stepping back and making a calculated show of looking her up and down. "But I was surely mistaken in you, Aithne…" He mused spitefully, pausing to pass his tongue deliberately across his still bleeding lip, "…for I thought you were _all_ woman…but yer just a feeble heart and a frigid body and what use is that to a man, ey?..." He snarled, delighting in the look of pure anguish now painting Aithne's face "….for it takes a _real woman_ to tame an animal such as I."

That said, he angrily snatched up the ladle now hanging languidly in a mortified Aithne's hand and threw it across the room before stalking out, banging the door shut behind him.

**...**

It was dark outside in the courtyard, with only the flickering blush of a scant number of braziers placed here and there to light the way. Tristan stood in the gloom, with his back against the bakery door that he had almost ripped off its hinges, and took a long, sobering breath.

He stayed where he was a while, hoping to hear the door swing open behind him and to hear her voice once more, even if it was to shower him with abuse that he so richly deserved. But nothing, not a sound emanated from within the bakery walls. Not even the suspicion of weeping. This disappointed him no end for he imagined himself gathering her up and kissing away her tears, crushing her to his chest, begging her forgiveness. However, he knew that should she appear now, he would do no such thing. He believed himself far too proud, too arrogant, too slated in his odious masculine ways ever to allow himself to appear so vulnerable.

_What a pitiful bastard he was at times._

He closed his eyes, clenched his jaw and let out a shuddering, miserable sigh.

His whole being still ached with lord knows what concoction of emotions – anger, desire, hurt, regret – each and every one seemed to be tearing him up, clamouring for release from the confines of his bemused heart. If this was what love did to a man, he wanted none of it.

_Love_…Is that what this was?... Did he _love_ her?

Surely not, how could he, he who had never loved a living soul in his whole life before?

His thoughts suddenly turned to that of Gawain. He who always professed to love all women – Tristan now doubted that very much – how could he love so many, so freely if this is what it did to you?

Thinking back to what had just passed between himself and Aithne, he groaned inwardly. God knows he had deserved his hauling across the coals but she had not deserved the scorn he had thrown her back in return. It had been fallacious and cruel and beneath even _his_ dignity. He had most certainly lost her now and love her or not, it hurt like hell.

He could hear music and song once again, drifting from the tavern, the sound of which brought a dispassionate smile to his lips and he opened his eyes. The mess he had left in his wake a short time ago was obviously cleared up and forgotten already.

_Christ, he could do with a drink!_

He contemplated returning to the tavern, but knew if he took solace in there, he was liable to drown in his cups and sod knows what he'd end up doing then. The thought of waking up draped over some foul smelling old strumpet or two, thankfully didn't appeal to him for once. He may have thrown away all chance he had of possessing Aithne, but he had no mind to drown his sorrows between the legs of any old trollop just yet.

Not tonight anyway.

Tonight he needed Aithne – He would go back to his room alone and wallow in self-pity there. Besides, he'd spent many a lonely night with just his calloused palm and good imagination for company. He had a full wineskin hung up by his bedside and the memories of her plump, enticing curves pressed up against him still burning vividly – if this was all he could have, it would have to do.

**...**

Tristan had ripped off his shirt, kicked off his boots and just squeezed out a large mug of wine from the wineskin beside his small, wooden cot when a furious rapping echoed upon his door.

"Piss off!" He growled angrily. He was in no mood for visitors, he just wanted to get drunk… _very drunk_…in peace and alone.

Instantly the door flew open and to Tristan's utter surprise, Aithne burst into the room, leaving the door swinging behind her.

She marched up right up before him, fury spitting out of her.

"You…_you_….arrogant piss-shite!" She screamed and slapped him hard across the face. Stunned, Tristan took a step back, rubbing his hand across the stinging flesh of his cheek with a look of complete disbelief on his face.

_Fuck, did she just hit me?_

"How dare you step foot in my house…_my home!... _and hail me unworthy of you…_you_!" she added with a venom that spoke only too clearly just how _unworthy _a shit she thought _he_ was.

Tristan just stared, unable to answer, still staggered by the shock of her actually having the nerve to slap him. "I am not woman enough for you, am I not?" She yelled thumping her chest with her fist, "or should that be _whore_ enough, ey? Well, you listen good…I am more of a woman than you will ever be a man. I have more self-respect, more dignity, _more heart_ than you will ever have…you swollen-headed, wench-chasing, pig of a man…" searching about her frantically she grabbed the first object she saw, which was the wine mug just recently filled and she slung it hard at Tristan's head. He ducked swiftly as it flew past, showering him with wine as it careered through the air and crashed against the wall behind, "…and I can bloody well chuck stuff harder than you an' all!"

Gods but she was gorgeous when she was angry! Face full flush and bountiful breasts heaving. He'd never imagined such courage in her bones, such audacity existed within her – it was beautiful to behold.

Aroused almost instantly, Tristan felt the strain in his breeches. Rigid beyond belief and throbbing painfully he turned his back in an effort to hide the obvious. If she didn't get out of there quick, he swore nothing would stop him finding out just how much a of woman she was, this time.

He reached out, leaning his weight upon both hands against the wine soaked wall behind him as if to steady himself and dropped his head below his shoulders.

"Leave Aithne" he hissed reluctantly.

Unperturbed she snapped back, "I will not, not before I've said what I came to say."

She heard a low, throaty chuckle before he asked, "You mean there's more?" he glanced over his shoulder at that point, a dark, hungry look in his eyes which made the tiny hairs on the back of Aithne's slender neck tingle. "You know what will happen if you stay" he said, his eyes flickering with dangerous promise. "I am at breaking point, woman. If you wish to leave here before the morn…go now."

Aithne swallowed, the colour rising up her throat, her eyes drawn to the bare contours of his magnificently lean, muscular torso "I am not afraid of you"

"Well y'damn well should be!" he yelled suddenly, turning round to face her "Now fuck off out of here, while I've still a mind to let you!"

Aithne trembled but held his gaze. His ferocious dismissal stung her viciously and to her dismay, she felt tears begin to gather. She blinked them away quickly, determined not to give him the satisfaction.

"You don't scare me with your threats! You haven't the nerve…"

_My God what was she doing?_

This was nothing short of goading a wild animal.

_Was she mad?_

Aithne's whole body shook and her heart pounded, almost bursting from the confines of her quivering frame but she spoke the truth - she felt no fear of him. It was fear of what her own inadequacies might prove to be now she had met his challenge.

Did _she _have the _nerve _to see this charade out to its inevitable end?

"You accused me of being feeble…of being frigid…! Well, tis you with the feeble heart!...Too feeble…nay, too _gutless_ a heart for a _woman_ like me!"

As she turned to leave, the door slammed shut before her eyes and she found herself enclosed by two arms leant upon it, either side of her. Her heart stopped and then stumbled wildly on.

"I'm tired of playing games, woman…" the words breathed against her neck. "I am a fool."

She felt lips against her throat. Tentative, hesitant…almost nervous lips. Slowly, carefully they moved to her jaw, her ear… warm, tender, nipping at her lobe. She closed her eyes, letting her head fall back against his shoulder. She sighed raggedly as arms circled around her waist and pulled her close.

"Lie with me, Aithne" he whispered, still kissing her gently "…_be mine._"


	12. Chapter 12 'A Thirst Quenched'

**This chapter follows straight on from the previous one. I've added a couple of sentences in italics, just to paint a brief picture of where I left Aithne & Tristan last time.**

**Sorry it's been such a long time in the writing. I hope it's okay.**

**Just a little warning - this chapter is a bit on the naughty side, but not gratuitously so, lol! - so please, if it offends, do not read. **

**Big thanks to all!**

**Chapter 12**

_She closed her eyes, letting her head fall back upon his shoulder and sighed raggedly as arms circled around her waist from behind and pulled her back, close up against him._

"_Lie with me, Aithne" he whispered, still kissing her gently"…be mine."_

Slowly and with tumultuous effort, Aithne raised her head from where it had fallen back upon Tristan's shoulder and opened her eyes, fixing them on the closed door before her.

His declaration had been made, simply and clearly and she knew she must be answerable to it. Humiliation and rage brought her to his door and now those driving emotions were slipping away with every warm, bated breath that kissed her neck, waiting for her to respond.

A small cry escaped her lips when, tired of waiting, restless hands began exploring her body. One hand, brimming with the flesh of her plentiful breast, caressed her greedily through the rough cloth of her gown. The other grasped impatiently for the hem of her skirt, gathering it up, exposing her trembling thighs with determined intent.

_No!_ She cried inwardly, appalled at her own weakness, but she could do nothing to stop him. The smell of him, the touch of his long graceful hands enticing from her soft cries and gasps as the strength in her legs melted into a pool at her feet. She knew that if the arms curled about her should let go, she would simply crumble to the floor.

She wanted to surrender, to lose herself in passion that had been so long absent from her life. But those painful, wounding words he had spoken replayed over and over, pricking at her through the onslaught of his fervent, needful touch, forcing a battle between her traitorously aroused body and her sagacious mind.

'_Not woman enough,'_ he had said. '_Feeble…frigid_...'

"Stop!" she cried out suddenly, as his fingers slipped between her thighs. "Let me go!"

Tristan cursed loudly and spun her around in his arms, shoving her backwards up against the door with a thud that made Aithne wince as her head bounced off the wood. He planted his hands firmly against the door either side of her shoulders, barring any escape.

"_Too late!_" he whispered brusquely, holding her with a look both tenacious and desperate.

Then slowly, with control he was hardly able to execute, he leant in and brushed her jaw with lips that barely touched, though burnt her to her very core.

Aithne was lost. Her face flushed scarlet and her pulse pounded painfully against her chest. She could scarcely breathe let alone speak and felt herself grow woozy and frail. Pride had no place here; whatever he thought of her, whatever his insults. How could she fight him when every part of her being wanted to be his? His magnetism was too powerful for her, overwhelming in its animal-like maleness. Primal, feral, intoxicating, he had enslaved her from the start and she could not deny it.

It was true after all, she _was_ a feeble creature and no doubt he would revel in reminding her of it when he had his fill. She could imagine his triumphant mockery already and her eyes began to swim with anxious, bewildered tears, and so she closed her eyes to them. She knew only that she wanted him, so let him do what he will. She would suffer his smug contempt afterwards; take what crumbs he felt inclined to offer whatever they may be.

If this was her fate, then so be it.

Tristan sensed her failing spirit and growled inwardly; watching in frustration as her eyes closed and her body withered languidly against the door, defeated and placid before him.

Was she going to surrender to him like this? Just lie down and let him take her like some passionless whore?

_By Christ, Aithne_! _Tis not your submission I want!_ He cried silently.

He wanted her to give to him, take from him, devour him. To want him as he wanted her, to need him, love him. He wanted it all. He knew her veins crackled with passionate strength, he had seen it more than once and it excited him, so why was she failing him now?

"For fuck's sake, woman!" he yelled angrily. "Where has my little fire sprite gone, _hmm_?" Tristan snarled, his voice teasing and husky, desperate to rile her again. "The one that came spitting and biting through my door just moments ago?"

Startled, Aithne's eyes flickered open and she scowled as she sobered to the abrupt change of mood. Seeing the fire rekindle in her eyes once more, he pressed on with relish.

"_All spit and no bite_…is that you, Aithne?"

_God's bones, _Aithne mused anxiously,_ he must be the most conceited whoreson in the empire! He's enjoying this, curse him._

"Do I scare you? Does the thought of a real man _scare you_? "

"Stop tormenting me and let me go!" she spat suddenly, her beleaguered emotions embroiled in anger yet again. "I want to go home."

"No you don't," he quipped back, ignoring her as she began shoving at his chest. He simply leant closer, as if her struggles to push him out of the way were nothing, and crushed her against the door.

"You want to come to my bed…" he whispered in her ear, nipping once at her lobe. "You're just too spineless to say 'yes'!"

Aithne let out a mortified gasp and thrashed against him with definite purpose, swearing angrily as she tried to wriggle out from under him. Almost escaping beneath his arm, Tristan grabbed her shoulders, whisked her swiftly around and let her go, sending her stumbling towards the straw-mattressed cot at the other side of the small room.

Aithne threw out her arms, just managing to steady herself before she ended up sprawled across his bed. Furious, she stood up tall and swung around to face him.

"You are a pig and a bully!" she yelled.

A seemly nonchalant Tristan leaned back upon the door, folded his arms across his bare chest and amused himself by letting his eyes burn a brazen trail from her feet to her face.

"An' you, madam…" he smiled wickedly, "...are a cock-tease."

Fuming, barely able to believe what she was hearing, Aithne's mouth opened and closed several times before any sound escaped.

"How dare you...! _How dare you_?"

Tristan continued to stare, admiring the outraged sight before him.

"Oh, I dare…!" He admonished, his eyes dark and teasing. "We both know what you _really_ came here for, don't we?"

"I came because you insulted me in my own home, you conceited pig and I'd not had a chance to defend my pride! I wanted to speak my piece, t'was my right!"

"And so it was and so you did…and when you'd finished your '_piece_', I gave you fair-warning enough to get out, but…." He cut a formidable figure stood there so relaxed in his confidence, devouring her within his voracious gaze, a knowing smile touching his lips. "_You stayed._"

He grinned and cocked his head knowingly.

Aithne swallowed, but dared not attempt another retort for she had none, so shamed was she to hear the simple truth spoken aloud before her. Feeling a fool and suddenly desperate to be anywhere but where she stood; she looked around for an escape. However, she knew that unless Tristan chose to move, there was none. She had no choice therefore, but to stay put.

Dropping her eyes to the floor, she gathered up her braid in her fingers and stood twiddling the ends like a petulant, anxious child waiting for whatever offense he might offer up next.

The wait was a torturously long one, until

"Take that off!" Tristan growled with a curt nod of his head in her general direction. Aithne's hand instinctively flew to the neck of her gown and a flush raced up her cheeks.

"I beg y'pardon?" She exclaimed, her eyes wide with a mixture of surprised indignation and _dare she admit it?_ Thrill.

Pausing deliberately, Tristan swept the tip of his tongue along his lower lip before he answered her.

"That rag in your hair. Get rid of it!" He snarled, stabbing his finger toward the ribbon Guyon had bought for her. "Now!"

Aithne looked at him dumfounded until his meaning became clear.

"No!" She retorted indignantly, with a haughty tilt of her chin. "I'll do nowt of the sort!"

"Get rid of it, Aithne...I'll not have you wearing the trinkets of another man."

"And I'll not be havin' you tellin' me what I can and can't wear in my hair, when you've no such right t'be doin' so!"

"Is that so, and what _does_ give a man the right, ey? A kiss…? A grope between your legs…? THIS?" He snarled, lunging forward suddenly, snatching up her hair and brandishing the end of it beneath her nose, just as he had done when they had stood in the alleyway behind the tavern, a short while ago.

"Does _he _have the right?" he yelled, suddenly incensed with jealousy "Is that your price, baker's girl? A shoddy green rag for a fumble in his breeches?" he felt his anger soar, but not from belief of his own accusations. It was simply that the thought of it was unbearable to him.

That was enough! He had insulted her way beyond any self-respecting woman's limit yet again. Wasting no time thinking, Aithne swiftly raised her hand to strike Tristan's face but this time he saw it coming and caught her wrist.

"Well, I'll ne'er be fumbling in _your_ breeches an' that's the truth!" she cried struggling to free herself.

Failing, but still determined to have the satisfaction of slapping his conceited face, she swung at his head with her other arm, but he ducked quickly and secured that one just as easily.

"I'll not let you hit me again, Aithne…do you understand?" he glared at her as if daring her to try.

And so she kicked him as hard as she possibly could instead.

"Damn it, woman!" He roared, letting go of her arms to grab his stinging shin.

Seeing her opportunity, Aithne tried to slip by him but he moved quickly blocking her way. Seeing only a closed fist rising from the man's side Aithne flinched, snapping her eyes shut and bracing herself against the blow she was certain would follow.

A rigid silence settled on the room. She felt no blow.

Tentatively, she opened her eyes to see Tristan staring at her in disbelief with his fist, still stained with Guyon's dried blood, now uncurled and stretched out mere inches from her face.

"By Christ, Aithne." he whispered his voice hoarse with bitter reproach. "Do you_ truly_ think I would_ strike_ you back?"

He glared at her unmoving, for a few moments more and then moved with his original intent to snatch up her braid again and promptly yank Guyon's ribbon from its binds. Without a word, he tossed it into the gently glowing brazier in the corner of the room, where it curled up and fizzled away to ash.

If to shame her for her unjust thoughts of him was his aim, then Tristan had succeeded. However, the thought of an apology stuck like lead in her throat, so she hid her embarrassment behind a haughtily raised eyebrow and a sneer and reminded him of the slap he had dealt her not a few days hence, when he had chased her down across the river on that huge monstrous nag of his.

Tristan was livid.

"I have ne'er had a taste for beating women but by God wench, was I to raise a hand to you in cruelty, t'would be to throw you over my knee and thrash your behind!" Tristan hissed at her, bitter with resentment "I dealt you no violence that day, twas a painless slap, to quiet a hysterical child! Had you thought anything other, you would not have stayed."

"Move away from the door," Aithne pouted, thoroughly chastened and so determined to ignore him. "I want to leave!"

"I've already told you, Aithne. You are staying." She made a move, but was instantly gathered up in his arms again.

"You wanted me to kiss you in the woods, didn't you?" he said sharply, drawing her up close. Aithne struggled half-heartedly in his arms, protesting, agonizingly aware of the powerful heat emanating from his naked skin. "Just as you wanted me to kiss you behind the tavern tonight...Aye, just as you want me to kiss you right now."

She became still. There was no sound but that of their breathing. His - deep and determined. Hers - light and anxious, both in perfect synchronicity as Aithne felt the fervent beat of Tristan's heart, pounding with her own as the arms about her tightened, molding her body ever closer to his own.

"Shall I kiss you now, Aithne?"

Shallow, soundless pants began to escape through her lips as he bent his head to taste the warm flesh of her throat. The nip of teeth and ragged whispers grazed her skin between kisses as he spoke to her - low, husky murmurs in a tongue she did not understand, but which mattered not for their meaning was unmistakable.

Arousal pierced through her body like a lightening strike once more and instinctively she arched toward him, powerless to stop it. Tristan growled appreciatively, grabbing her hips and thrusting back in answer and then wolf-like bit down on her neck, just enough to hold her steady as he continued to move against her. Tristan let out a groan, a deep, throaty, feral-like sound that sent the fire soaring through Aithne's veins. The need to feel her warm, bare skin against his own was excruciating. He longed to touch her, ached to lie her down and fill her.

How much longer was she going to hold back?

Tristan released her neck, licking the faint indentations his animal bite had left and heard her whimper longingly.

"For fuck's sake…Aithne!" He pleaded, his voice husky with need as he lifted his head and looked deep into her eyes, "No more of this battle"

Tristan reached up and laced his fingers through the wild curls that were escaping from her loosened braid, sending her locks tumbling free over her shoulders. So soft, so beautiful, with the faint smell of cinnamon rousing his senses, just how he'd imagined it would. She looked up at him, silent and tense with anticipation.

"I meant none of those cruel things I said to you." He whispered "t'were falsehoods spoken only to hurt you and I am ashamed of it." He hesitated, considering his next words carefully, afraid almost to speak them for fear of what she would do. "The door is no longer barred, Aithne. I shall not hold you against your will. But please…" He took her face in his hands. "…_Stay_."

To his relief she did not pick up her skirts and run, as he feared she would. Instead, they simply stared at one another for what seemed an eternity and Tristan wished with all his heart that he were able to voice the words to tell her what he truly felt, but it was impossible for him. The few words he had already spoken had been hard enough. Apologies, concession - these were not things that came at all easily to Tristan. His only hope was that she knew enough of him to understand what he could not yet express in words.

Aithne studied him, still silent, still unmoving and then slowly, she relaxed and the smallest glimmer of a smile ghosted her lips. Tristan's saw it and relief flooded his heart.

"Don't be afraid…." He soothed huskily, feeling his passion soar for he was certain now, she was about to become his. "Kiss me, Aithne…touch me. Just take yo..."Aithne laid her fingertips upon his mouth and shushed him gently.

It always seemed to her that Tristan had an uncanny knack for speaking the tactless at the most inopportune moments and were he to do so now, it would shatter her completely.

Obeying, Tristan remained silent. He heard her swallow, then the whispering intake of breath as she gathered her courage.

He waited - desperate, trembling until slowly, tentatively Aithne raised her hand to his chest and touched. He stifled a low guttural moan as her quivering fingertips grazed his skin, like those of an angel gentle and warm, marveling at the beauty of him, worshipping him. His heart pounded deep within, a rhythmic throb, pulsed in his loins as her fingers slid through the dark curls on his chest, then down, down and over the solid contours of his abdomen, so excruciatingly close and then up again. He let out a gasp as if starved of breath, when lips kissed along the trail where fingers had touched.

Expert it was not, but no skilled leman could have given him more pleasure. The sheer honesty with which she caressed him, so tender and adoring, drove him beyond all his endurance.

When she fell to her knees before him, he almost buckled. He felt her hands shake as they tugged at the laces on his breeches. He groaned in joyous disbelief and immediately buried his hands into the soft tendrils of her hair. He lent over and gently kissed the top of her head. She looked up at him and he kissed her again on her nose, her eyelids, her cheeks, her mouth.

"Oh Aithne," he breathed between kisses, his voice rusty and laced with desire. "You don't have to do this."

"But…I want to." She whispered back and unthreaded the ties.

Sighing with grateful pleasure, Tristan coiled fists of hair around his hands and threw back his head. Exposed now, he could feel her breath caressing his rigid, burning flesh and knew any moment he would feel her soft lips and warm, wet mouth upon him.

_Christ! Fuck! _Had he yelled that aloud? He neither knew nor cared for her hands were upon him and moving with shocking subtly, sending pulses ricocheting through his spine to his throbbing core. He cried out her name when she began to taste him with her tongue, coiled her hair tighter and tighter around his hands as her mouth opened to take him in.

She had barely touched him when a fierce, uncontrollable shudder wracked his body. He knew what was coming and there was absolutely nothing he could do about it.

His knees collapsed and he fell before her, burying his face into her neck as he cried into the wild disarray of her unbound hair. "_Shit, shit, shit_!"

Aithne threw her arms about him, soothing and rocking him as he came in convulsive gasps, "I'm sorry…so…sorry" he gasped hoarsely between heaving breaths "I didn't mean to…" he moaned again as the delightful spasm still pumped through his body. "Not happened to me before... so long since…a woman like you…" his voice eventually trailed off with the subsiding orgasm.

They remained silent and still in each other's arms for a while, and then slowly he unwound his hands from her hair and lifted his head from her shoulder. He looked for all that it was worth, like a little boy – sheepishly ashamed and barely able to meet her eye. He cleared his throat self-consciously.

"I just need a moment..." he mumbled gruffly as he rearranged his breeches. "I'm not normally so…_quick_…"

Turning away from Aithne, he fumbled about on the floor, grabbed his shirt and used it to wipe the damp stains from her skirt and hand, all the time mumbling gruff apologies and bewildered exclamations under his breath.

"My God woman, what did you do to me...?"

Aithne just watched him, eyes wide with amusement and heart full of endearing affection to see this man so undone and then she began to giggle.

Tristan stopped dead, cringing at the sound, and then forced himself to meet her eyes. However, the derision he expected to see was not there. She was laughing at him, but there was no malice or mockery in her bright eyes.

"Oh Tristan!" she chuckled, cupping his whiskered cheek in her hand, her eyes glowing affectionately "I swear, I don't know when I've ever been so flattered!"

Tristan shook his head, embarrassed but somewhat relieved.

"It's been…." He shrugged, throwing her a reluctant grin whilst he tried to find the right word "a difficult day!"

Getting to his feet, he reached down and gathered Aithne up into his arms. Still laughing, she took his face in her hands and kissed him.

"I thought you said you'd _never_ fumble about in my breeches," Tristan teased, pressing her cheek against his chest, enfolding her in his arms. He felt her chuckling against him, and knew she was probably blushing profusely. He smiled at the thought of it; he liked that shy, bashful quality about her, as much as he liked her spit and courage when riled.

Aithne coiled her arms tighter around his waist, loving every moment the simple pleasure of being held in another's arms for it had been so long since she had shared intimacy of any kind. She sighed contentedly, feeling as if a sense of balance had settled between them, as if they had met at some level above that of the mere physical. Did they finally understand one another?

Well that would have to remain to be seen, she wasn't sure if she'd ever fully understand Tristan, did anyone? But she had seen the man inside of him at least, vulnerable and real just like any other man and she liked what she saw.

Slowly, leisurely she felt his hands begin to stroke the contours of her back as they stood in one another's embrace. It was the simplest caress, but the fire that lay unquenched within her, kindled instantly.

Tristan sensed it and responded. She had been patient long enough.

This time when he reached for her hems, she did not protest but instead lifted her arms as he eased the dress over her head and he took a moment drinking in the magnificent sight of her naked flesh.

"By the Gods, Aithne, you really are beautiful." He whispered, reaching out one hand, trailing his fingertips across the swell of her breast in almost disbelieving admiration.

He saw the colour rise at her throat but she didn't shy away from his touch. So, emboldened he pulled her close, swung her up in his arms and laid her down upon his bed. He then struggled out of his breeches, cursing under his breath when his foot caught and he almost toppled over.

Once off, he flung them across the room and lay down beside her. Their naked limbs brushed and entwined as he stroked his hand over her breasts and stomach. She moaned gently, and moved against him. Urging his hand lower, lower to where she ached and burned. They kissed as he teased her. His fingertips gliding from hip to hip, up to her breasts and then down low once more. But not quite there, not quite.

"What do you want, Aithne?" He whispered as he closed his mouth over a breast and suckled the soft, warm flesh. Aithne gasped and writhed against him. "Tell me…" he demanded, his tongue circling, teasing her beyond endurance. "Is this what you want?"

His hand glided down and her thighs parted willingly, she cried out as he brushed her moist, swollen flesh and then slid his fingers inside of her. My God, but was she ready for him! Tristan lifted his head to watch her as she writhed gently against his hand. Tiny rhythmic cries escaping her lips as her movements became bolder, more determined. Such an incredible sight! Wide, enticing hips. Strong thighs, large firm breasts. Such a beauty, how could he have taken so long to notice her? He felt himself throb painfully, desperate to be sheathed where his fingers now explored. His endurance would not last much longer.

He felt small pulses begin to milk his fingers and pulled away. She cried out in protest at first, but clung to him greedily when he moved between her legs. Before he was able to, she had already taken him in her hand and was sliding him into her heat. It was Tristan's turn to cry out, delightfully surprised at the wanton way in which she took from him. He grew rough in his need, knowing it was what she wanted and he filled her with deep, ravenously hard strokes. She answered him in kind, dragging fingernails across his shoulders and meeting his every thrust.

He grabbed her hips, holding her still as he filled her - higher, deeper, faster - both of them crying out with every spine-tingling stroke. Aithne let go of him and grasped the mattress white-knuckled, as he took her. Eyes closed, back arched. A shimmering sheen of perspiration now glistened on their bodies, making their lovemaking slick and frantic.

Tristan was on the edge and knew he could not hold on much longer. Desperate that he not disappoint a second time, he let go of her hips. Bracing himself on one hand, he reached between her legs with the other, touching her as he pushed deeper and deeper.

"_Dear God!…Yes, yes!" _she cried, as he encourage her on. Feeling her tighten and throb around him, he knew she was almost there and with frenzied relief, he let himself go.

Aithne whimpered, then sobbed as her orgasm engulfed her. Wave after wave, she trembled and pulsed, and just as she thought she could not possibly take anymore more, her soul shattered.

Somewhere, in the distance, far beyond her ecstasy she heard Tristan roar and knew he was shattering too.


	13. Chapter 13 'Pain'

**Brief Author's Note - Just to save anyone thinking I've made a mistake. I'd just like to make a mention about the length of a soldier's military service. As all of us who love the film 'King Arthur' know, for some bizarre reason, which I still can't fathom, they state the Sarmatian military service term as 15 years. It was in fact 25 years as I'm sure most of you are aware, with the men being recruited at the age of 16. **

**Anyway, I've stuck with the correct 25 years as it's far more believable in terms of the ages of 'Tristan' et al and serves the story better. **

**As always, thank you all for reading :D**

**Chapter 13 - Pain**

"Hold still for pity's sake, man...lest ye fancy the snout of a suckling pig!" The old physician scolded impatiently, as he wrestled a secure grip on the bloated, bruising mass that had once been Guyon's attractively falcon-like nose.

Guyon yelled and cursed, spitting venom and blood through his teeth as the man's chubby fingers clamped down on either side of the splintered cartilage and swollen flesh. With a strength and deftness that seemed at odds with such short and bulbous digits, the physician suddenly pinched and straightened in one swift motion and the sickening crunch of twisting gristle reverberated around the infirmary walls, drowned only by that of Guyon's agonising roar. He cursed and lashed out but the physician dodged the blow with practiced ease. He'd known what would happen; the reaction was always the same, no matter how big and tough the injured brute thought himself!

"Fuck. Fuck…FUCK! _You damn…. pissin'…. bastard…whore of a shite!"_ Guyon sobbed and choked as scorching pain seared through his head, a rush of thick clotting blood filling his mouth as he tried to yell some more.

"Ah, hush your mouth, you wet-eared whelp!" Scolded the physician, as he wiped the blood from his fingers. "I've fixed bairns that have done less blubbering than you."

Guyon opened his mouth to curse the man again but instead gagged furiously as the salty, metallic coagulum slid down his throat.

"Not on the bloody floor!" He yelled, running across the room to grab a bucket, and thrusting it firmly into Guyon's hands as he began vomiting profusely.

Long, torturous moments later, the sickness finally subsided leaving Guyon nauseous and moaning languidly into the depths of the rancid smelling bucket. With effort, he lifted his head slowly to escape the foul odour, sweat beading his feverish brow and his long black hair, damp and clinging to a face which was now crimson and tear-streaked from retching. Gradually, the searing agony began to fade to a dull throb that pounded behind his swollen, blackened eyes.

"Humpf…!" Said the physician, casting an eye over his handiwork. "Tis an improvement…you were far prettier than a man has a right to be, if y'ask me!"

"I didn't fuckin' ask you…" Guyon groaned, slumping back in the wooden chair, the previous flush draining from his checks, leaving him pale and gaunt. He shivered as the adrenaline began to seep from his veins. He felt cold and utterly shattered. He needed to lie down, desperately.

"You'll be thanking me in a few days, just see if y'don't…" The old man continued to crow, taking the vomit-filled bucket from Guyon and setting it down on the floor. "I'll have y' know, I study the texts of the great Galen himself! Mark me words, you'll nay find a better physician than I on this isle. Now sup this." he said, reaching for a vial amongst many littered upon a small wooden table beside him. "T'will ease the pain, some"

Pouring a small measure of foul smelling liquor, the physician waved the offending brew beneath Guyon's newly straightened nose.

"Get that away!" Guyon snarled, knocking the older man's chubby hands aside "I want none of yer, poisons!"

Unruffled by the lash-out, the physician merely shrugged and did as he was bid.

"Suit yerself. Tis no concern of mine if y'want to play the martyr to pain. Now, rest up here til the morn. Expect yer bollocks to be as black as pitch for a while, oh and you'll like as not be pissin' blood for a few days. But it'll pass. You can resume coitus when you can bear it, but it's my guess the wenches'll have to do without yer for a few days at least?" He laughed, an acidic grin creasing his lips. "That was some boot you took 'twixt yer legs…floored yer did it, big man?"

Guyon snarled another curse as he heaved himself up out of the chair and staggered over to the proffered cot, easing himself down with a groan, grateful for the respite. Now, if only this old sod would bugger off and leave him in peace.

"So, who'd you rile to provoke such a beating then, Laddie?" The physician persisted, still grinning to himself as he shuffled about, putting his potions in order and clearing up the evening's bloody mess.

"A fuckin' dead man." Guyon growled slowly, his voice half cracked and hoarse, but filled with hate-filled conviction.

The old man raised a cynical eyebrow as he continued his tasks. He'd heard this talk a thousand times from a thousand men just like him; body and pride having been battered and humiliated over what was usually of no more consequence than an embittered game of dice, or a dispute over some loose legged strumpet. He'd like as not hear it a thousand times again. But still he asked the inevitable question.

"And who might this walking corpse be, then?"

"A Sarmatian." Guyon snapped back immediately, the hatred so thick upon his tongue as to make the physician prick up his ears and pause a moment "Fuckin' barbarian filth."

A contemplative silence fell upon the room for a moment before either man spoke again.

"Son," the old man began gravely, the grin gone from his lips. "You're a strapping lad, I can see that, but you're no soldier. Now, 'appen this is nay my business but if you'd take my counsel, I'll wager yer best leavin' well alone…for_ you'll_ be the dead man if you try takin' up against a Sarmatian. There's good reason they sit at the right hand of the King, y'should know that. Their ilk was coveted by the old Empire for generations and it wasn't for their darning skills! Heed my advice…take yer pasting like a man and walk away."

He expected another barrage of curses to follow, bruised pride usually demanded it. Men would shout and spit a while and then when their wits returned, they would shuffle off with their tails firmly coiled about their hind legs and keep their eyes well off the antagonist.

But Guyon lay silent, numbed with pain and loathing. The old git was right, as much as it choked him to admit it. True, the bastard had taken him by surprise, but even had he not; Guyon knew the likelihood was that he could never best a veteran Sarmatian warrior like Tristan. Ruthlessly disciplined, everyone last one of them and even if by some miracle he did prevail, there would always be another waiting to extract revenge. That lot always looked after their own.

However he would have his satisfaction one day, one way or another. As he lay here in his agony and shame, he swore it. So fuck him; fuck him and his baker's whore! Maybe he couldn't prevail against Tristan, not directly anyhow and not with brute force.

But Aithne on the other hand, was a different matter altogether.

…

When Tristan woke it was with a start, calmed by a strangely mournful sense of solitude. He lay there, perfectly still for a moment in a room shrouded in darkness, but for a shadowy red gloom emanating from the dying embers of the brazier in the farthest corner. He didn't need to open his eyes to know he was alone, for he felt the loss of her utterly.

He breathed in deeply. He could still smell her.

If it were not for the scent of their love-making hanging wistfully upon the tranquil air and the delicious taste of her sweet feminine musk still lingering on his tongue, he would have feared what had passed between them, had been nothing more than a fanciful dream.

But she _had_ been here; in his bed, in his arms for why else would his body ache so profusely with the effort of such deliciously sated passion.

'_Christ's breeches_' but he'd forgotten how truly exhausting it was satisfying a woman, he'd not even bothered to try for years, after all it was_ his_ pleasure he paid for, not theirs. So why take the trouble?

'_Exhausting_,' he mused with a yawn, reaching up to lock his fingers more comfortably behind the back of his neck. Exhausting and like no other joy he had known in a long, long time. Throughout the night he had given her everything and she had rewarded him ten-fold. When he kissed, she touched. When he touched, she devoured him; fervent with desire to give, and yet helpless in her own need. He'd had to teach her nothing. She simply responded to him with pure, uninhibited passion.

Shy, blushing Aithne; who'd of ever thought it?

A wicked grin curled upon Tristan's lips as he enjoyed the memories of a night he had never quite expected from one as seemly chaste as she. How wrong a man could be sometimes, thank the Gods!

Every soft cry, every yearning whimper she uttered had been charmed from her lips by him and he remembered every single one. So unlike the moans and yowls of whores dutifully performing their pretence of lust, this night with Aithne had shown him the beauty of true love-making; selfless, giving, satisfying…_beautiful_.

He had never felt so needed, so wanted…so loved.

With a groan Tristan unlaced his fingers and threw a lazy arm across his tired, heavy-lidded eyes, letting the thought of her intoxicate his soul and to his amazement, he felt actual physical pain. Crushing, sweet, all consuming pain like nothing he had ever known before.

"Ah, fuckin' hell!" he murmured aloud, realising with sudden and absolute clarity that for the first and only time in his thirty four years, he was a lost man.

He'd only gone and fallen in love with the bloody woman!

Fallen in love with a baker's daughter who'd not even had the decency to stay in his bed until morning! Who'd run out on him without as much as a kiss or a fare-thee-well, the little chit!

Just _how_ had she snuck away without him knowing anyway? He'd had her pressed to his chest and entwined in his limbs when they had both drifted off. He knew that, because the feel of her soft, plentiful curves pressed close against him and the memory of never again wishing to let her go, still burned fiercely within him. Yet she had escaped him somehow. He, who even when in his cups would stir at the whisper of a feather on the breeze if he were called to do so!

He wasn't the King's scout for nothing!

Tristan scowled; feeling churlish and irritable all of a sudden - annoyed that she should even have _wanted_ to leave his bed. How dare the little wagtail simply sneak away and run out on him like that? Well, she would be answerable for it when he caught up with her. He wanted her back in his bed and he was damn well going to fetch her.

He sat up, squinting at the darkness and kicked about the floor with his foot to find his shirt and breeches.

….

Tristan had fancied it must be the middle of the night before he had stepped out of his door in search of Aithne, but one look over at the Eastern hills and the shimmer of sunlight that glowed upon their peaks proved him wrong by several hours. Not that that troubled him any, in fact it suited him much better. If it were dawn, then she would without doubt be up and about somewhere.

As was usual where Aithne was concerned, he'd not given any thought past that of wanting to see her again. So what exactly had he proposed he would do if it_ had_ still been the middle of the night and she'd been safely tucked up beside her own hearth? Camp outside her threshold all night like some pathetic, lovesick puppy, until she came out? Or woken the whole fort by hammering on her door, demanding she open up? Now that would have put him firmly in her good stead, wouldn't it? _Idiot!_ Just as well the sun was rising then wasn't it?

He considered taking his usual morning swill at the horse trough before heading off to find Aithne, but somehow the thought of washing away the delicious smell of her so soon didn't appeal to him, so he didn't bother. The ache in his bladder on the other hand, couldn't wait so he stopped to relieve himself against the guard-house wall, before carrying on in the direction of the bakery.

….

Tristan strode through the bakery the door without knock or announcement, sweeping his eyes around the small abode, before he spoke to the man sat facing him at the large wooden table. The warm air inside, smelt of tasty baked bread and cinnamon...it smelt of Aithne, and he felt his heart twist at the recognition, making him frown. He simply wasn't used to all this strange emotion she invoked in him.

"Where's the girl?" he snapped more harshly than he'd intended.

Aithne's father looked up from his porridge bowl, surprised to see the Sarmatian stood before him.

"Good morrow to you, sir." He said amiably enough, hiding the rankle that rose from the arrogant tone of enquiry. "Can I offer you a sup? Tis a might early, 'appen you haven't broke yer fast yet?"

"Aithne, were is she?" Tristan asked again, ignoring the offer.

"Tis my daughter yer seekin', is it?" He replied, laying down his spoon slowly, taking time to study the Sarmatian through dark, suspicious eyes. "She were away from her bed late last night..._very late_.?" The thinly veiled accusation which twinkled in the older man's eyes was not lost on Tristan, but he said nothing. He just held his steady gaze, expressionless.

A knowing silence lingered a while.

"She's a _good_ _lass_, my Aithne…" The man continued quietly, still eyeing the knight with a shrewd intensity, "good-hearted, honest… hard workin' too…There's them that's wanting to make a good offer fer a decent woman such as she."

Tristan's eyes narrowed, wondering where the man was going with this. He knew well enough there were those who would sell their daughter's backside for a coin. Was this man eyeing him up for a levy? Sniffing out Tristan's interest in her and so plumping up the woman's worth for a penny more than the going rate? If he was, Tristan imagined he would throttle him with his bare hands for such an insult toward Aithne.

But Aithne was loved. Any fool would know that. There could be nothing more sinister in the man's words than a father's concern for his daughter, Tristan reasoned. He remained quiet, willing to wait and see whatever censure he had coming his way.

"I don't know where my lass were last night, but I know where she _weren't - _She weren't with the man she set out with..! That'un spent the night in the infirmary, did he not?" Aithne's father raised a dark questioning brow and scowled across at Tristan, but still he made no comment.

"My daughter's no child. She's a grown woman, a widow in fact and old enough to know 'er own mind, but if she'd come home this morn with anything less than the silly girl's grin she wore...I'd be out to kill the bastard that saw fit to steal her away last night."

Tristan gave a brief but respectful nod of his head. This was a canny man sat before him and they understood one another perfectly.

"D'ya want my girl whispered about, named for a whore behind her back?" He said suddenly, making Tristan's indecipherable face finally falter.

"She is no whore!" He growled, he eyes flashing molten amber.

"I know that! You _dare_ say I don't know me own daughter?" Her father growled back, but he liked the angry fire he saw in the knight's eyes, evidence enough for him that he cared.

"Forgive me." Tristan replied instantly. He heard his own words but couldn't fathom quite how he'd made the sounds without choking…. '_Forgive me!' Had he honestly said that? What was that woman doing to him! _ Despite himself he added a dutiful "I meant no disrespect"

"Then you deny tis yerself who kept 'er away from 'er own hearth last night?"

"I deny nothing, but I say again, I meant no disrespect towards you or your daughter. Especially not your daughter and I certainly mean her no ill."

"So, she _was_ with you?" The older man studied Tristan with a puzzled look, wondering just when this knight had raised his eye in Aithne's direction, for he had seen no sign of it. This one, the knight everyone knew as Tristan, was always acknowledged as somewhat singular. A quiet, curious sort of man; not usually given to mingle with any other than his immediate brothers-in-arms. He wondered just how on earth he and his bashful daughter had even managed to form any sort of acquaintance in the first place!

"You mean 'er no ill, though you keep 'er out all night…" He continued, baiting him a little. "So you intend to wed her then? Tis why you've called on me at this ungodly hour, is it not, to claim 'er hand?"

Tristan bristled, he quickly determined this man was no fool, and therefore he knew this question was meant only to rile him. But he would not be seen to rise to it.

"You know very well I cannot wed until I am free of my military bonds, old man." He answered steadily.

"Ah yes, yer military bonds…twenty five years is it not?" The baker quipped back. Tristan said nothing. "And just how many years have you served, cavalryman?"

"Eighteen."

Aithne's father simply smiled; a sardonic curl of his lips, and heaved a sigh, standing up to step around and in front of the table. He sat back upon it, folding his arms across his chest and regarded Tristan with a more serious air.

"I'm guessing that I've nay need to be tellin' you there's another who wishes to make a decent woman of her. And I'm guessing from the scuffle last night at the tavern that this other man has just discovered he's not t'only one with a mind for my Aithne…. Tis her choice, but Guyon has a good trade, he's strong… _young._" He stressed with a cynical sweep from head to foot at Tristan, who he guessed couldn't be that much younger than himself, then added. "He'll protect her well and he cares for her."

Tristan gave derisive snort at that. This man _was_ a fool after all if he believed that.

"That bastard is nowt but deceit!" Tristan hissed. "He's nay what you think he is. I'd not touch any man that did not ask for it."

"Is that so?" Aithne's father frowned thoughtfully, was he to believe the beating this knight gave Guyon was not just down to simple male jealousy. "You offer her better, do you?"

"_I_ will take care of her. I will protect her. And no one would dare name a woman of mine for a whore." Tristan's voice was low and steady but his eyes still flashed with a determined passion. Aithne's father found himself liking this Sarmatian more and more. He never recalled seeing such a look in Guyon's eyes when he spoke of Aithne. But still, he pressed the knight.

"Aye, maybe not while you live! But yer demobbing is what… seven years away? What 'appens to Aithne should you die before yer release? And if, by the mercy of the Old Gods you do live that long, what then…? Will you not be crossin' the sea for yer homeland, Sarmatian?"

"Is that what yer afraid of, that I will take her east, far away from you?"

"No, blast you!" He shouted angrily. "That you'll leave her destitute, with nowt but the filthy name of 'whore' and a passel of fatherless brats!"

The two men scowled at each other for a long while until Tristan broke the uneasy silence, his voice firm and filled with such frank certainty that what remained of her father's fears simply faded away.

"I do not intend to die. I will not leave her. And this place we live… is my home."

Aithne's father smiled slowly and his angry scowl slipped away. This knight truly did care for his daughter and if she felt for him as much in return, then what more could he as her father, wish for? He wanted her safe and cared for. If Aithne thought this the right man for her then he'd not interfere. She was old enough to know her own mind and if he were honest, she never had wanted Guyon's attentions and had always protested as much. He was just too stubborn to heed it. And there must be motive more than mere jealousy that impelled this man to give Guyon a good hiding. He wasn't sure he really wanted to know what that was, so he chose not to ask. It didn't really matter now anyhow.

"She's out takin' the bread. 'Appen she'll be at the tavern...or maybe the kitchens. She'll not be far aways anyhow."

Tristan hesitated and then nodded his thanks. Perhaps, he was right in the first place and the old man wasn't a fool after all. He turned on his heel about to leave and then asked.

"Does she know about that smithy?"

"_I've_ not told her, if that's what yer askin'." Her father replied. "She flew in like a spring gale this morning. Didn't give me a breath's chance of mentioning it before she was off out again with her bread cart…..I guess I'll leave that t'you, now! I'll not lie, I don't fancy being in your boots when she hears of it. Whatever he did to upset you, it had better be deserving of yer fists or she'll like-as-not ne'er forgive y' for it."

Tristan made no reply, just nodded again.

"You play fair for my Aithne, Sarmatian…she chooses you of 'er own free will and not because you beat y'rival half to death."

"


End file.
